I’ve always had a suspicion that there’s something in the water that people drink in places like middle America and the southern states that fosters the propensity for idiotic, reactionary behavior; usually enacted to protect children, marriage, culture, or the English language. Throw in some irrational terrorist paranoia, inbred racism and deep-seated belief that the world outside their teeny little town is evil and you’ve got the tribe of the great, white and bloated buffalo that is the part of America that I hope to never really understand.

Staff members of an elementary school staged a fictitious gun attack on students during a class trip, telling them it was not a drill as the children cried and hid under tables.

The mock attack Thursday night was intended as a learning experience and lasted five minutes during the weeklong trip to a state park, said Scales Elementary School Assistant Principal Don Bartch, who led the trip.

It is articles like this that make me wonder why these people haven’t devoured themselves and their insular, head-up-the-ass clusterfuck of a terrified, milque-toast culture in one huge Hail Mary implosion. Perhaps they’re waiting for the rapture.

Brooklyn at night, in the summer (as long as you’re not getting your ass mugged or shot at) is the shit. Last night, I walked up to the Brooklyn Museum, about a block from me to check out a huge dance party in the back parking lot. The was a good 400-500 people there, but the music really wasn’t my thing, so I just kept walking down Eastern Parkway, getting dizzy off of the lilac flowers that seem to be everywhere and tried to find a decent cup of coffee. I ended up having to walk well into Park Slope, but it was worth it to be outside. Walking around the neighborhood at night is something I haven’t done in a long time, especially since I got mugged. But last night it seemed everyone was out on the streets, so I felt safe enough. It made me miss the nights in Vermont, where restless at three in the morning, I’d roll a big joint and roam the streets on my bike, aimless and insane.

Earlier in the day, while hitting up the farmer’s market for some eggs, I took a spur of the moment excursion into Prospect Park. I rarely venture in there, partly because it can at times be pretty lawless (or at least there’s no one around if it ever should get that way) and also because, being a card carrying member of the BBG, I tend to head there more often, seeing as I paid for it. That’s a mistake. Prospect Park is fucking amazing. I think I found the most beautiful cul de sac in Brooklyn there. It’s crazy that, here in the city, I get to have this jungle only a couple blocks from where I live.

It gets me thinking. What price beauty and culture, if you have to live in places where it seems like every day, something bad happens? Someone gets shot, hit by a car, mugged, robbed, you name it. I can walk out of this building I live in, go one block south and be knee deep in flora, art, culture and every goddamn reason why civilization and city life is the epitome of human existence. Yet, to get there, that one block I pass through shows me the everything thats wrong with it. If I go any distance east, it only gets worse. On my block there have been robberies, muggings, shootings, hit and runs and it gets no better. No one learns. It’s a perpetual ass-fuck of people living in shit and not giving a fuck about their fellow man. Just a few nights a go, I watched a car crash from my living room window. Nothing minor, mind you. It was a pretty good crack-up, leaving one car spun out in the middle of an intersection. This car, after coming to a stop, sat motionless. The driver and passengers either hurt or in shock. People walked right by, deliberately avoiding looking. Crowds gathered on the corner and stared, talking amongst themselves. Finally, about eight minutes after the accident, someone walked up to the car to see if the passengers were all right and dialed 911 from his cell phone. When I got mugged there was at least a couple people farther down the street that just watched like my suffering was that evening’s special entertainment. This is Brooklyn and this is Prospect Heights.

But this other side… the museum, the park, the gardens. Tom’s Restaurant and all the other places that make this neighborhood, unique, original and a fascinating mix of the massive and the mundane. I see these things as much as I see the crap that lives here. I love these things as much as I hate the cancers that rot this neighborhood.