And so, dear readers, after the obligatory three-year stint bleeding cash through our tear ducts to pay for a cramped, leak-prone, sunlight-devoid 700-square-foot shit shack in Manhattan’s Central Village, the time has come to do what every urban zealot who dreams of in-house washer/dryers while gulping down twinges of yuppie guilt must one day do: Move to Brooklyn.
Moving day is rapidly approaching, and I’m currently peeking at my laptop screen through a clearing in the piles of cardboard, newspaper, dust and bubble wrap encasing our soon-to-be-vacant living room. It never ceases to amaze me how much life detritus can fit into a junior one-bedroom, not to mention a moving van. Please be patient if posts are sporadic over the next few weeks as we complete the sojourn across the river - though, as one reader aptly put it, “What good is your social life if we can’t read about it?” Can’t argue with that.