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Posts Tagged ‘Union Hall’

Brooklyn Skeptic’s bocce team, Balls Deep, took care of business at the semi-finals last week, and is now all set to play the finals this weekend at Union Hall. Our game starts at 2pm this Saturday, so please come cheer us on (or boo us, we don’t fucking care). The grand prize for the tournament is a limo ride for an evening. If you’re nice enough to us, we might just give you a wave from the sunroof. If you’re not, we’ll probably instruct our driver to run you over.

Balls Deep!

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It’s been hard to avoid hearing about Park Slope in the news recently. The New York Times printed an article in the weekend Style section that addressed some of the neighborhood ire. Between a Sex and the City-style television show that is set to take place in Park Slope to a group of “stroller nazis” (i.e. women who have children and choose to push them in strollers all in the name of the Third Reich) trying to shut down local bar Union Hall, there’s a lot to talk about. The thing is, none of it is very interesting. In fact, it bores this shit out of me. Wait a minute, Park Slope has been yuppified? Get the fuck out of here (and by here I mean this small, overpriced Park Slope boutique)! What tipped you off, genius?

Anyway, I don’t really want to get into it, because Lord knows there have been enough articles and comments about the subject. But as a young man in his mid-twenties who has no children, is not a coop member (and thus has never missed a shift or been on probation) and has not been pushed in a stroller in the past twenty years, here are three things that I like a lot about Park Slope.

  1. There are more old man bars than you can throw an orthotic insoled shoe at. Off the top of my head, I can think of Farrell’s, O’Connors, Old Carriage Inn and of course Jackie’s Fifth Amendment, all of which have enough stories and old man musk to last me until I’m sitting on one of their bar-stools talking about World War 4 and when I was forced to vote for President Chelsea Clinton.
  2. Park Slope teens are bad ass. While they can be pretty intimidating, they’re also incredibly impressive, and seem to run in packs like wild dogs. These kids will get shit done when they’re older. And by “shit” I mean more than just chain-smoking outside of Tea Lounge.
  3. Park Slope is the perfect place to spend a hungover Sunday. There are a ridiculous amount of diners to eat away your headache, a massive park with endless green grass to sit in as you contemplate how you’re failing at life, movie theaters all around to sit in darkness and watch better looking people make life decisions so you don’t have to and, most importantly, a great collection of bars, delis and wine stores to have another drink on a Sunday evening while you forget that you have to be at work the next morning and that you’ve been late every day for the past week and that maybe your horoscope was right and you really are going to need to make some drastic changes in your life.

Anyway, there you go. Park Slope can be annoying, stuck-up, snobby and overpriced, but so can Williamsburg, Brooklyn Heights, Carroll Gardens, Cobble Hill, Prospect Heights and many other Brooklyn neighborhoods. Stop complaining about it, or the Park Slope teenagers will put their cigarettes out on your face.

           

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Celebrate April Fool’s Day by flinging balls around!

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As many of you already know, Brooklyn Skeptic is chock-full of rabid bocce enthusiasts. This means that we like to get down with the balls & court several times per week. We’ve got needs, you know?

Up until recently, our bocce playing arenas were limited to two bars – Floyd NY and Union Hall. But what happens when a normally free game ends up costing like $50 in beer money? Or when the bartender knows you better than your own family? Or when there are seas of douchebags teeming over the court, their high heels and guido-boots pockmarking the delicate surface? Or when it’s like 6:00 in the morning?

Well, in that case, you haul your ass to Target, pick up your very own set of bocce balls and head over to Carroll Park. The park has two regulation size bocce courts which are like twice as wide and another 20 feet longer than the indoor courts. The extra space and the inability for the balls to roll lead to some creative hurling methods. Additionally, the courts are filled with STD-infected sand, not dissimilar to what you might find on the banks of the mighty Gowanus. You’ll love it.

After we played in the lower STD court, we realized that there is a really nice, fenced-in court just above it. It’s all smooth and raked. Maybe you should try that one out. I’m still picking syringes out of my flip-flops from the other one.

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Let me tell you a little story about douchebags per square foot, RK.

One time at Union Hall, a Brooklyn Skeptic contributor was minding her own business, playin’ a little bocce, sippin’ a little vodka tonic. Some thirty-five-year-old man came up to her in his $700 artfully ripped jeans and cashmere sweater and asked if he could play against her. Being the incredibly kind, sweet, gregarious girl that this Brooklyn Skeptic contributor was, of course she agreed.

This man, however, had been watching the young lady play for a while, surmised that she was an excellent bocce player, and had decided that that meant that she was worth neither dignity nor human kindness. When the Brooklyn Skeptic contributor went up for her turn, she carefully lined up her shot, wound up and…

“Booogedy boogedy!” screamed the 35-year-old as he jumped on the court beside her. This obviously scared the fuck out of her and her shot rolled astray.

“Why did you do that?” asked the emotionally traumatized young lady.

“What’s the matter? Can’t handle a little pressure?”

The young lady, understanding that the man could have been intellectually impaired, drunk, or perhaps the spawn of Satan, decided to just let it go. He was clearly terrified by her awesome bocce skills. So the rest of that round goes by and the evil, old man doesn’t pull any more garbage.

When the next round begins, the young lady lines up her first shot again and sees the man ready himself to jump on the court again. She looks over to him.

“Stop being a dick, man. You’re no fun to play with at all.”

He whines for a little while and she vows to always bring pepper spray with her to Union Hall for the rest of time.

Now the moral of this story is: never put that many over-indulged thirty-somethings who fear middle age like the fucking bird flu in the same room with a bunch of liquor and kitschy furnishings.

I’ll stick to Floyd, thank you very much.

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