ICYMI: @LosFelizDaycare on Twitter Is Our New Favorite Thing

Dear @LosFelizDaycare,

Thank you for your brave Twitter page. Here at the Park Slope Cooperative Free Space for Explorative Questioning, we are so pleased to have found a West Coast kindred spirit. We would love to share your creation with our Partners in Learning, but regrettably the children in our care are not allowed exposure to screens.

Gratitude for your Energy,
Park Slope CFSEQ

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Brilliant Idea: Speed Dating For Moms

Image via Glamour.comLongestshortesttime.com is producing a pretty fucking smart upcoming event:

What: Speed Dating for Moms—get matched up with your next BFF

Where: The Bell House; 149 7th Street, Brooklyn, NY 11215

When: Wednesday, October 22, in the evening

Why: Because you’ve been complaining about not being able to find mama friends who don’t judge you!

What else: Treats + free drinks! (What else do you need?)

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Will the Real Mrs. Shady, Please Shut Up?

Photo via thesource.comSo you're having an affair. That's your business, WTF do I care? Except you seem to think the rest of the Slope really wants to hear about it. I was walking behind you, schlepping my groceries home, when I overheard your philandering hook up call.

"Oh you like to cook?..... Hahahaha...oh yeahhhh?.....I'll BET you do....well, I like talking to you too... No, it doesn't matter when you text me, I have you saved in my phone as "Charisma". Yeah, he knows there's a girl at my work named Charisma..."

I say "overheard," but you were so loud that the cuckolded tool to whom you are bound by holy matrimony probably heard it all the way from his office at 85 Broad Street. Not that I'm shedding any tears for the Mister. If we're to believe Ashley Madison, there's a good chance that he's just as sketchy.

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MISSING TARANTULA HOAX SCURRIES INTO PARK SLOPE’S HEART

Photo credit: LASERPILOT VIA REDDIT

FIPS readers are no suckers, but the rest of the Internet was flipping the fuck out on Friday over the escape of a “mostly harmless” lil ol’ Tarantula in Park Slope. Saturday morning, the NY Times confirmed my suspicion that we were being trolled by a lamppost.

By late Friday afternoon, a phone call to the number listed on the sign yielded the apparent truth: It was all a joke that had gotten out of hand.

“I always see those signs for missing dogs and cats taped up on posts; I thought, ‘What’s the most absurd poster I could come up with?’ ” the man who answered the phone said. “I thought it was so beyond ridiculous that no one would take it seriously. I was wrong.”

The man, who refused to provide his name, said he lived in the neighborhood and worked as a, er, web and graphic designer.

“I never expected it to blow up,” he said. “Then I was in the train station, looking at my Twitter feed and saw this tweet from ABC about a tarantula. I thought, ‘Oh, man.’ ”

The man said he had never owned a tarantula, or any pet for that matter. “I actually didn’t know how to spell tarantula,” he said. “I had to Google that.” 

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[FIPS WAS THERE…] MORBID ANATOMY MUSEUM

I was equally giddy with anticipation and awash in the heebie-fucking-jeebies upon arriving at the newly opened Morbid Anatomy Museum at 424 Third Avenue in Brooklyn. 

The Morbid Anatomy Museum is a new 4,200 square foot non-profit institution dedicated to the celebration and exhibition of artifacts, histories and ideas which fall between the cracks of high and low culture, death and beauty, and disciplinary divides.

I’m not particularly squeamish, nor am I into gory horror movies. I suppose I was anticipating some kind of unflinching look at death, à la HBO’s Six Feet Under. I imagined it was going to be full of brooding sexy types reveling in the painful fact that life is fleeting, making it the new Gowanus dating hotspot---cable television has taught me that existential crises can be a real panty dropper. Everything dies, so Carpe Diem in my drawers, Nathanial Fisher, Jr!

The entry through the first floor bookstore/café feels promising. It’s spacious but otherwise has a typical independent Brooklyn coffee shop vibe, with the added bonus of a substantial collection of books on death, diseases and mourning. I try to mask my enthusiasm for the impending horrors that surely await me on the other side while paying my $10 admission fee to a woman who is apathetically restocking books on the Bubonic Plague or possibly excruciating Syphilitic deaths. Everyone there is completely blasé and I’m just trying to act normal while half expecting that I’m about to see the Elephant Man’s bones.

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