Paperblog A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

A Brie Grows in Brooklyn

"Mabel's not crazy... she's unusual."

Real People I Love: Kate, A Woman With A Hairless Cat, An Apartment in Bushwick and a Gut Feeling She Belongs in New York

Hey y’all. In the weeks before the wedding, knowing I wouldn’t have much time to write, I asked a few women I’ve met if they’d agree to do an interview with me for my blog. They were women that I’ve met through various channels — other friends, Facebook, Tumblr — whom I’ve corresponded with for a while online before meeting in person.

One of these women was named Kate, and I met her a few weeks ago for dinner in Williamsburg. Our friend in Los Angeles set us up; she said we would fall in love, and we did, at a communal table while a dumpy couple with identically bad complexions gaped at us while we talked about ecstasy, hairless cats, denim dresses, and God. 

The story of our generation of women has yet to be written. The only models we have thus far are extremes — the extreme privilege and attitude towards sex as characterized by Girls; the extreme lifestyle promoted by “Lean In,” in which women must model her behavior after men in order to be successful in a male-constructed corporate world; and the extreme attitudes about sex, love, marriage and motherhood promoted by articles about women in New York Magazine and The Atlantic.

I thought it might be interesting to tell the story of Kate, a woman who lives in Bushwick with her hairless cat, Smalls; has parents who live in Maine, one of whom is a pilot; who falls in love; who isn’t famous; who doesn’t live a life based around some sort of ideology; who works an office job. She’s like me; she’s not like me. She’s completely unique, but also normal. I think she’s really wonderful.

I wish I could write a better introduction to her, but I don’t have fucking time thanks to this goddamn wedding (I thought I was above the wedding thing — GUESS WHAT I’M NOT), so instead, I leave you her answers to my insane questions, unedited and uncut. 

1. What’s your job, exactly? 

Oh, I’m a glorified secretary. Everyone thinks I’m being self-depricating when I say that, but, not only am I not self-deprecating, it’s true and it’s exactly the job I applied for and exactly the job I want. I say good morning to everyone as they filter in, I buy the groceries, and restock the snacks, I clean the kitchen, I ask about mothers and kids (that’s not true, I actually don’t ask about anyone ever because I don’t really care, they volunteer and I humor the convo…when in Rome), I suffer fools and affect, and I sass everyone within earshot and within inches of HR violations. Also, I have two different nail files an arm’s length away, references to the need for coffee and alcohol on various pieces of flair, and pictures of my cat wallpapering my desk walls. I’m a secretary.

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Over New York Avenue (or near or beyond it). 

Over New York Avenue (or near or beyond it). 

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Let’s Kill Them: Adventures in Yuppie White Utopia

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Whenever the couple in the apartment below us turns on their television, I stomp on the floor. They must not know what that means because the volume gets neither louder nor softer.

“Did those people drop their bowling ball again?” I imagine they say to each other.

When they first moved in last summer, Caleb reported that they were Australian — or at least had Australian-sounding accents. He ran into them outside, and they told him they had relocated to Brooklyn from Houston. They had three gigantic dogs, and a couch so dirty that Caleb couldn’t believe they were moving it into their new apartment. “I think they might be white trash,” he relayed to me mournfully on the car ride home from LaGuardia airport, where I had just landed after being trapped in the bowels of hell (Florida). 

“Their dogs bark constantly, and their television is on night and day,” he continued. “Our floors vibrate. I think this is going to be problematic.”

Caleb’s fear infected me. I hated the neighbors immediately.

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Things I saw when I left the house today.

Things I saw when I left the house today.

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Too lazy for make-up or dressing up. (at Holler & Squall)

Too lazy for make-up or dressing up. (at Holler & Squall)

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HAPPY FUCKING FRIDAY! If you’re looking for something to do this weekend, WATCH BROAD CITY. It’s about two pothead fuck ups who live in Brooklyn — one works at a Soul Cycle-esque company as a janitor, and the other at some inane media company that looks like every media company that every 25-year-old works at.
It’s basically everything I wanted “Girls” to be, plus things I couldn’t have even hoped for. Because the two main characters smoke weed all of the time. And eat a lot of candy. And speak like ‘Lil Wayne. They’re basically me only I love them more. (Do I talk like ‘Lil Wayne? I wish I did. I know I’m spelling his name wrong.)
If “Girls” existed so this show could be born, I thank you “Girls.” OTHERWISE I CANNOT BELIEVE HOW FUCKING MORALLY BANKRUPT AND MEDIOCRE YOU ARE.
In case you’re too lazy to figure this out for yourself, you can watch the first three episodes of “Broad City” on Hulu, and all of them on Entertainment-on-Demand Channel 10000, what the what what. 
Also, if you’ve seen it already, please email me because I want to talk about it.

HAPPY FUCKING FRIDAY! If you’re looking for something to do this weekend, WATCH BROAD CITY. It’s about two pothead fuck ups who live in Brooklyn — one works at a Soul Cycle-esque company as a janitor, and the other at some inane media company that looks like every media company that every 25-year-old works at.

It’s basically everything I wanted “Girls” to be, plus things I couldn’t have even hoped for. Because the two main characters smoke weed all of the time. And eat a lot of candy. And speak like ‘Lil Wayne. They’re basically me only I love them more. (Do I talk like ‘Lil Wayne? I wish I did. I know I’m spelling his name wrong.)

If “Girls” existed so this show could be born, I thank you “Girls.” OTHERWISE I CANNOT BELIEVE HOW FUCKING MORALLY BANKRUPT AND MEDIOCRE YOU ARE.

In case you’re too lazy to figure this out for yourself, you can watch the first three episodes of “Broad City” on Hulu, and all of them on Entertainment-on-Demand Channel 10000, what the what what. 

Also, if you’ve seen it already, please email me because I want to talk about it.

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Sort of like the apocalypse outside today.

Sort of like the apocalypse outside today.

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Carroll Gardens, Rush Hour.

Carroll Gardens, Rush Hour.

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Snow, blah blah blah.

Snow, blah blah blah.

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Dead Horse Bay: A Day Journey

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Caleb and I were watching “Mike Tyson: Undisputed Truth” on HBO, a one-man show starring Tyson and produced by Spike Lee, when he decided to do some research on Brownsville, the Brooklyn neighborhood that features heavily in Tyson’s origin story.

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While I laughed my head off at lines like, “I put this tramp stamp on my face because I wanted to” (Tyson on his face tattoo) and “There’s nothing worse than a fat cokehead” (Tyson on his coke addiction and coinciding weight gain in the early 2000s), Caleb interjected with facts.

"Did you know Brownsville was originally a Jewish neighborhood?" he asked.

And then, “Do you know that poor people lived in Brownsville because it was near the glue factories where they converted dead horses into glycerine in the 19th century?”

"Why does that matter?" I asked.

"Because the smell filled the air, and it was horrible," Caleb said. "The place where they did it is called Dead Horse Bay."

"Gross," I said.

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"Did you know that when automobiles were introduced in the 20th century, and there were fewer horse carcasses, they converted Dead Horse Bay into a landfill?" Caleb said. 

"Caleb, please, shut the fuck up," I said. Because Caleb always ruins viewing experiences for me by loudly commenting during important moments in the dialogue. 

"Hmmph," he said, and moved to the other side of the couch, like he always does. 

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A haunted landfill.

A haunted landfill.

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Place: Dead Horse Bay Bag: A Slow Interview

Place: Dead Horse Bay
Bag: A Slow Interview

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At home in Brooklyn.

At home in Brooklyn.

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Pier art.

Pier art.

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Perfection.

Perfection.

(Source: backofhouse)

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