Life and blogs can’t all just be wistful dreaming of Patagonia as the TL1000s superbike cools beneath one’s window in Flatbush…ticking softly. We’ve been meaning to check out the Brooklyn Museum for some time now, situated as it is betwixt our worktime haunts and the crumbling Victorian manse in which our rented room and bed is kept (but not made! (ha!)). A great attractiveness of the Brooklyn Museum lies in the fact that it’s stuffed with art and that it’s free, well, suggested donation which means it is basically free. The MET is like this still and it’s one of the reasons why we love it so. Seriously, the Guggenheim, MoMA, and the fucking Whitney are like $18 just to enter. Looking at art should be free and the Guggenheim should be paying me half the time to look at their shitty installments. Rumors swirl, as Josh at work says that the Museum of Natural History X is no longer pay-what-you-can. Bullshit methinks with its fiberglass whale and shitty, scabies ridden dioramas (Fuck you Ben Stiller…atorrante!). Well…regardless the Brooklyn Museum is alright, empty and quiet on a late Thursday afternoon. Incidentally, this is the only time this place is open late, a good thing for working boys and girls.
Yea, so the museum is housed in a pretty nice building, a tasteful mix of new and old. Elegant. Airy. There’s a small sculpture garden near the entrance, full of nude busts of Balzac if that’s your thing and a nice point-counterpoint to the crappy modern art (hunks of multicolored plastic and shit) that’s strewn throughout the building. Yea, so it’s like a little MET. Cool. There’s even some mummies on display and a pretty substantial collection of Egyptian artistry. Add to that some Babylonian friezes and the BK Museum is golden.
Why not check out the collections of retro silverware and art deco alarm clocks and the like in the living storage area upstairs. But, before you do make sure to say hello to Bicycle Boy, crown jewel of the Brooklyn Museum, reigning supreme on the top floor like a level-boss. This creepy little mascot of Louis Simon’s turn of the century Greenpoint motorcycle and bicycle shop was built to lure customers within like an angler fish. Back in his glory daze his legs would move and pedal the bicycle and a lightbulb glowed within his wooden skull, illuminating the hollow and and brightening his glass eyes with a dull red life. Legend has it the Bicycle Boy comes alive at night, roaming the halls of Brooklyn’s own MET and sometimes out the doors and into the night, eyes ablaze!
Bonus: Book reviews for Gentleboys: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
Possibly the most wistful book I’ve ever deigned to read. nevertheless A Tree Grows in Brooklyn has earned its place in American literary history and wears its classification as a modern classic without apology. A bit pulpy, dainty, and ladylike Tree reads well and quick; a fun read really with scenes of olden-tyme Brooklyn as seen through the eyes of a little girl making for a nice counterpoint-point to the usual shit I read. We could all have one of these books about growing up in whatever place it was that we did. A Stump Grows in Levittown Under a Mailbox? A coming of age tale set in America’s first suburb? Bah, screw it! You know that shit doesn’t end well. We’ll pitch it as a collection of prose and poems about growing up playing soccer and nintendo in the godless suburbs, and then all the way up to the present day and sleepless night spent wandering down Flatbush Ave naked and alone, a loaded revolver in one hand and an ice cold St. Ides in the other…
R2D2 ridin’ on the BQ
like to see a girl in her underwear see through
A train plain Jane giving me a migraine
move from the front now to the back brain!
Bike bike we like rails on the penny
On the Belt now doing 120!