CHRISTOPHER KETCHAM, a freelance writer for Harper's, GQ, Mother Jones and many other magazines, divides his time between Brooklyn and the redrock country of Utah.
He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
The case of the plundering of the estate of retired judge John L. Phillips is the nexus where corruption and a rainbow coalition of cliché meet, Brooklyn-style.
I recognize this smile: its that of the abuser, the fiend, or the crack addict.
On Feb. 6, the Brooklyn Supreme Court announced that it would soon begin auctioning off the storied Slave Theaters I & II in Bedford Stuyvesant, where black activists in New York once gathered to speak and protest.
In the snowy March of 2003, I climbed Slide Mountain, the tallest of the Catskill range at 4,180 feet, and met a wild-looking man named Sean McFall, who was staying 35 days on Slides shoulders, in the three-foot snow drifts, with the ice blowing from the treetops and his demonic-looking white bulldog keeping him warm when the temperature dropped to minus 20 degrees Fahrenheit.
More good news in crisis from down the block here in Park Slope: The realty office that I could almost spit on from my stoop has shut its doors, boarded up the classy windows, sent its half-breed parasites home, no more to feed on old women tossed from rent control.
In the 1980s, when I was a kid, the section of Court Street where it meets Atlantic Avenue was broken-down and unhappy and full of crazy old men stumbling out of bars and nothing shined and you could get a plate of yellow rice with a half-chicken on the rotisserie for three dollars with a forty of St. Ides for a dollar more. I have a real nostalgie de la boue for it, which is unhealthy and self-deluding and I admit this freely.
And the sun behind the plume went out orange and then violet…