In Brooklyn, the brownstone stoop is an architectural metaphor for the inglorious human condition, a place where time is indefinite and residents dwell, slack and undignified, their ugliest human traits on display for the swiftly commuting public. The stoop might offer a concurring high-five over the merits of middleweight boxers, but this subject could just as easily offer a nonverbal grunt or an unsolicited sleeper hold. The stoop is about as indecent as its name sounds. Here fights break out.
Alcohol is served and served and served.
Distorted music rattles the more reserved neighbors, the ones who choose to keep their parties to themselves indoors. Brows are mopped slowly and puckered eyes scan passers-by, wishing on them a dogspit film of inept sexual longing mixed with lazy, murderous resentment. Me, I like a stoop. I have longed for a real stoop ever since I settled into Brooklyn almost five years ago. I want a place to snuggle my fat ass, scream at pedestrians, read the racing forms, and get publicly drunk before 2pm.