It’s a charmed life.
It wasn’t long until the faux subway stops started catching my eye. This is a real stop where I normally catch the R train in to Manhattan. If you were over the age of 40 you are lined up on this side of the stop wondering loudly where you can CATCH THE ‘R’ NOW?!
“IS THIS NOT BROOKLYN? AM I IN QUEENS?”
It has become clear to me that they are going to lie, the way films about aliens sometimes do, and call my beloved Brooklyn – Queens. Ick.
This is a lie too. That train station is 100% fake. They built it from scratch. Oh how I wish I could catch a train on Court. Sigh.
My favorite part of this whole ordeal was spotting the smaller details all along the streets. Where new age hipster bikes usually lounge, beautiful 50 pound Schwinns lined the walk. Newspapers with 1958 stamped on the front page were stacked on my corner. Street signs were swapped. It was like a dream. I blinked and suddenly everything just went vintage — a skill I’ve practiced with little success for the last ten years.
This photo was snapped after I got back to my bedroom. I was laughing in a delicate flower kind of way with a dreamily dressed boy when finally discovered and eventually removed from set around three in the morning. I thought I was perfectly camouflaged in my yellow bell skirt and vintage pearls.
‘BRING ME A PICNIC TABLE AND LET’S FIDDLE DEE DEE THIS ISH!’
As if 50 years ago women weren’t interested in eating pizza and watching drag races?
*puts on best Alicia Silverstone face*
Anyway, the view from my bedroom was pretty great.
I would have posted about this bit of Hollywood Glamour sooner but I was busy writing to the mayor, Macys and God in triplicate to ask that the Thanksgiving Day Parade now start on this particular corner in BK town.
And here’s a photo I found while reading the ahem, New York Times this morning. It is my understanding that they have a better camera than I do 😉
photo credit: Ben Russel
Long ago, during a unfortunate Toby McGuire crush, I realized that maybe I wouldn’t LOVE living in the 60s. My week long stint walking home amongst some of the prettier things whilst not being judged for my persimmon pout, makes me realize that no, I was wrong. I was basically made for Pleasantville.