Brooklyn’s Golden Age is the world’s smallest inside joke. What looks like the amber glow of nostalgia-in-the-making is really the piss-yellow stain left by life mocking its own existence. It’s the epitome of ironic indifference, grandiose and self-referential, because there is no manifesto, only i.
Dumbstruck, like a fly on the wall glued to its own death, dreamers flounder here in their own self-regarding endgames in soiled back-alley shit holes. Everyone will have their fifteen minutes of shame. The Wild-Bore has taken its grip. Everything’s amazing and no one gives a fuck. Entitlement is the new apathy.
But take heart – art’s not dead! Write it big on the walls in bold, black semi-permanent marker. Blog about it, then tweet your friends to come. Because in Brooklyn, the ghettos are fabulous, urban legends are born overnight, and Lena Dunham will be your friend… we’re all friends down here in the gutter. Click like.
Welcome to Bushwick, restrooms are for customers only.
– Carly Sioux.
Guest writer for Quiet Lunch Magazine.