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The Smartass Guide To New York, Part 6

Thursday, we went into Brooklyn. I had a friend who lives there, so we went to see him. Otherwise, there is no reason to go to Brooklyn. Except to hear their hilarious accents. They actually do tawk like that. New York actually has different sorts of white people. It is adorable!

First, we all hung out at the Brooklyn Museum of Art. If you have seen all other museums in New York, totally come here. Their temporary exhibitions are excellent. When we were there, they had two floors of stuff by a Japanese artist named Murakami, who does art in a style that is like anime, but full of disturbing images, human excretions, bizarre sexuality, and enormous torrents of mother’s milk and male ejaculate.

It was very cool, but you’ll really, really have to take my word for it. And it must be very accessible, because they were taking large groups of schoolchildren through there. They really hustled those kids through the rooms with the ejaculate.

They also have a halfway decent floor of egyptian artifacts, which they brag, amusingly, are of “Brooklyn quality.” It is pretty cool if you don’t know that the Metropolitan Museum of Art exists. But now you do, so you have no excuse.

Then we hung out at our friend’s house. Which was in the Polish neighborhood. Polish neighborhood! They have a whole special place just for Polish people! New Yorkers are so cute with that stuff that it kills me!

Finally, we had dinner at the famous Peter Luger steakhouse, opened in 1887. Even in a city with a million steakhouses, this place stands apart.

It is an ancient shrine for dry-aged beef and perfectly preserved Brooklyn attitude. They only accept cash and the Peter Luger credit card. That is not a joke. They have their own card, only usable there. They only take reservations at a quarter to the hour (which is perfectly reasonable, because I have never in my life been hungry at 6:15). Their only entrees are steak, lamb chops, and fish. And God help you if you order the fish. If you do, they probably serve you a steak. Which was carved out of the last guy who ordered fish.

They are sufficiently proud of their steak that they act insulted if you ask for a menu. They say “menu” the way most people say “cornhole.” When they ask what you want, just say you want a steak or they will poo on you.

The steak was also pretty much the best I have ever had. Go if you can, and just pretend that the attitude is part of the show. It’s like Epcot Brooklyn.

Then we left Brooklyn. Which is good, because I was starting to feel like I was in Grand Theft Auto. We went back to Greenwich Village and watched a nice movie. Then we went next door and had egg creams at the sort of place that lovingly makes long-forgotten drinks like that for hipster douchebags like me.

On the way back to the hotel, we passed a trendy bar that would never, under any circumstances, let us in. It was a perfect Manhattan evening. Fun, expensive, and capped off with a fresh reminder that we will never be good enough.

Still no celebrities. Jesus Christ. All I see, hour in and hour out, is an endless parade of peons like you. And I’m sure you’re a great person and your mother loves you, but I didn’t fly all the way across America to look at you.

Back to part 5

No offense.

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