Does Brooklyn exist solely for the purpose for people in their 30s to pretend they’re 19 and cool? I mean, of course, this doesn’t apply to ALL Brooklyn neighborhoods, I just mean the yuppie/hipster ones. It’s just that I went to a show tonight at Freddy’s, where a room full of 30 somethings rooted on bands wearing vests over trendy t-shirts, sunglasses at night, and electric guitars they held tight as they jumped up on each beat…and people, we really can’t pull that look off any more, you know?
Everything is going as we age. It’s like a fire sale — the memory, the brain functionality, the flexibility, the ability to eat doughnuts at midnight without paying the price — it’s all going so fast. Do you know I spent 20 minutes today telling my friend Christine my opinion on the work of the actress Patricia Clarkson? When Christine didn’t know who that actress was, I tried but I couldn’t for the life of me recall any of the actual titles of her films. I could picture her in my head — very pretty, white, early 50s, pale red hair. I had to give clues like “she was in movie where she was one of three leads — the other two were Bobby Carnevale and the midget.” Or “she was in the black and white movie about the news–Robert Downey, Jr.” Or “she was in a movie about gay people.”
It was only later that day that someone pointed out the name I kept saying to Christine was actually “Patricia Richardson,” a different actress who was on the Tim Allen sitcom (the name of which I can’t recall. It had to do with tools and Pamela Anderson got her start on it). Ay caramba.