Beautiful brownstones! Iconic bridges! Crowds of high-spirited young adults on the cusp of moving to Austin!
Brooklyn is alive and thriving like never before! Connected by a famous bridge to the mainland of Manhattan and the wealthy people who have little to do there, Brooklyn has taken advantage of its supernatural charms to build a laboratory of quirky and inventive humanity. Its mystical sights exert a strange pull on the stolid Manhattanites and their doleful way of life. How so? Allow me to provide a little history.
Brooklyn was a thriving wharving town from its founding as a minor Revolutionary War battle site up until the 1879 absinthe pandemic, which curiously only decimated the rump Dutch population. Afterwards, it grew thick with abandoned warehouses and secretive canals, making it an attractive destination for immigrant Irish laborers and their green-jacketed familiars. As they gave way to German merchant families and their less whimsical, more terrifying männchen, big-city politics overtook the small-town feel and incorporated its violently clashing spirit clans into a corrupt but reliable system of magical governance. After a breakdown in demonic relations culminated in the dystopian 1980s, Brooklyn was mystically purified by Giuliani the Rude, and came into its present stability and affluence. We can now say that this plucky outer borough has fulfilled the eerie prophecy made by noted early twentieth century occultist Dr. Elisabeth “Betty” Lillian Wehner Jones “Smith:” a tree grows there, in Brooklyn, nearly every day.
Any travel around Brooklyn will acquaint you with its restive energy. Glance through the window of a laundromat, and you’re as likely to see toddlers ordering small-batch bourbon macaroni and chèvre as you are their mother thanklessly and forlornly washing their grease-stained clothes. Pass by the Morlock tunnel entrances (all helpfully marked), and you’ll see crowds of early-career adults being disgorged in a Dalìan representation of the first parts of Revelation. As Tom Wolfe chronicled in A Man in Full, Atlanta has nothing on Brooklyn’s creative sophistication.
The residential areas are full of charming cookie-cutter residences constructed in a brief period of wanton environmental destruction. The inhabitants continue to torturously coax trees and gardens out of the sidewalks as a way to recall the glories of those bygone times and trap the poltergeists who infect their basements. The western edge of the borough is full of busy markets for Wall Street dumpster-divers, crowded parks offering a respite from the crowds, and the calming flow of the accumulated fluids of millions of filthy humans.
Of course, the culture of Brooklyn takes some getting used to. Consider its contradictory nomenclature: Flatbush is stippled with non-organic buildings; the Brooklyn Bridge actually leads to the more famous and widely loved New York City, New York; and the Brooklyn Children’s Museum does not contain the ghosts of easily tricked orphans. Even the name Brooklyn is something of a mystery, though some say it derives from the Native American Dutch word for “broken, cursed fairie land.” It is easy to spend an afternoon wandering these delightful but poorly named sights, and reveling in the endless stream of humorous misanthropes who bristle at close-in photographs of their faces taken by extensible selfie-sticks.
Of course, one can’t comment on this slice of New Jersey and its ancient leprechauns without mentioning its most important industry: the manufacture and export of hipsters. It’s a common trope to complain about hipsters migrating from Brooklyn to other cities with the kind of dilapidated residences that they find so comforting and familiar, but hipsterdom has provided a great service in revitalizing local economies and reclaiming suspenders from their horribly racist past. Brooklyn itself, however, is fast innovating a new breed of hipster that will soon bring much-needed gentrification to the rest of America. Allow me to explain.
Even as the rest of the country finally succumbs to hand-crafted cocktails made with poisonous Amazonian frog sweat, Brooklyn has begun exporting thousands of new-model creatives to improve the wastelands of Houston and Phoenix and Birmingham. These counter-intuitively straight-laced individuals were conceived in NYU or perhaps SUNY-New Paltz and tempered in Manhattan before being expelled and honed by the reasonably clean streets of Brooklyn. Now ready for wider distribution, they are settling in Orlando and Salt Lake City and other places with much less oppressively foreboding clouds. One might wonder whether these new hipsters will bring the kind of disruptive edge to their new towns that the prior versions did. I can assure you that while they appear to be friendly, upstanding citizens, they are imbued with an attitude that can only be forged on this incredibly dynamic tip of Long Staten Island: the knowledge of their own cultural omniscience.
Thus I think I speak for most of the nation when I sum up this fearfully ensorcelled place by saying: Thank you, Brooklyn. You’ve built a bridge to our hearts, which are in Manhattan.