Moving to Brooklyn war stories: if you’re here now, you’ve got em; I’ve got em, we all do, especially Mr. Darcy, who was bounced around our fine borough like a pinball with tourette’s syndrome during his first few months and can (and maybe will?) share stories of being woken up in a sublet by cops banging down the door and a horribly unfortunate end to an ill-fated internship at certain hippness-centric magazine (hint: its name is synonymous with “lechery.”)
Buddy Alex Weisler over at Brokelyn had an interesting idea: he’s starting his senior year at Penn State soon (managing editor of the Daily Collegian too: Student journalism represent!) and noted that, for many college kids these days, Brooklyn remains the shining holy city on the hill for post-graduation adventures, “a sort of hipster paradise of bloggers, vegans, flannel shirts and facial hair.”
To throw some ice water on those raging hard-ons for Brooklyn, he’s soliciting war stories about what it’s really like to throw yourself at the mercy of the county of Kings. All told, I had a pretty good streak of luck transforming from jobless-homeless-dollarless scalawag to semi-employed semi-housed NY-license holding resident (my main goal was to tread water, and I feel OK at least declaring this one a win).
But I did have one karmic slap-around of note. I sent it to Alex to run on the site (along with my picture again, apparently. … thanks gang). As per usual, I overwrote it by far, so here’s the full version, for your enjoyment or schadenfreude: Continue reading