The Day My Faith Was Restored in Park Slope

Like many readers of this here blog, I find that living in Park Slope requires that I walk a tightrope of sorts. I enjoy the neighborhood's various charms and relative accessibility on the one hand, yet endure the smug shitheaded-ness of my neighbors on the other. Every once in a while, however, I find that either the charms ain't so charming or, as I recently came to consider, maybe those who share the neighborhood with me aren't the self (or child)-absorbed wankers that I've pegged them to be.

As a semi-professional freelancer, a large portion of my monthly income arrives in paper checks via the U.S. postal service. The daily kerplunk of magazines, letters and junk mail (mostly addressed to people who moved out three years ago) is shimmied through the slot on my building's front door. As it scatters across the small main floor it is, for me, like the ka-ching of a cash register.

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