Brooklyn’s Golden Age is the world’s smallest inside joke. What looks like the amber glow of nostalgia-in-the-making is really the piss-yellow stain left by life mocking its own existence. It’s the epitome of ironic indifference, grandiose and self-referential, because there is no manifesto, only i. Dumbstruck, like a fly on the wall glued to its own death, dreamers flounder here in their own self-regarding endgames in soiled back-alley shit holes. Read More