A Sunday in Brooklyn

My friend A. is a contractor, and he’s done some work over the years for a woman who lives in Park Slope. We were planning to check out some of the farther reaches of the borough in the afternoon, and since he was coming from Manhattan it made sense for him to pick me up first. So I went with him to the client's house. Turns out the woman’s 18 year old had put his fist through one of the parlor doors (his bedroom) in a rage over his girlfriend leaving him. Ouch. Sounds like somebody needs to leave home already (he’s a freshman in college). The house was built in the late 1890s, so the doors may have been original. Kind of amazing how long wood can last, breathing, expanding and contracting with the weather and the years. Kind of amazing how male rage can be so destructive. (Yes, I know it's my team, but I usually count myself a CO).

From there we went to Breezy Point, the western-most tip of the Rockaway peninsula/barrier beach. The place lived up to its name. A fierce wind off the water plunging the temps and squinting the eyes. Lots of sea clam shells and junk on the beach. A. was amazed at the number of tampon applicators. Not me, I’ve been combing beaches for years. They float and they’re made of plastic, two surefire reasons to end up on the beach. And it turns out, says my friend M, (admittedly, I haven’t given it much thought before now) that they are completely unnecessary, made for women so alienated from their bodies that they can’t poke their own fingers inside. Come on, sisters, push! Love thy vagina. I certainly do.

Then we had dinner at Porchetta on Smith Street. Good meal, really nice (that means cute, yes, but also good at what they did) wait staff. But what kind of corvids are those stuffed in the restroom?