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Post-apocalyptic? No. This is an apocalyptic posting! Like the smoldering heap of boundary stones marking novelist Jim Knipfel’s Park Slope Liebestod; like Combat Jack’s review of Brendan I. Koerner’s Now The Hell Will Start: One Soldier’s Flight From Greatest Manhunt of World War II, which sounds a lot more interesting than those rightly wary of the publishing racket’s recent affection (affliction?) for hyperbolic subtitles would suspect; like this (planet of the) apeshit rumination by Vanishing Jeremiah (who thankfully pulled back from the brink); like Robert Sietsema, lolling through the ruins of Hudson Street’s “Resto Apocalypse.” It’s well known, of course, that I’m a Hudson Avenue man, myself— maybe I’ll write more about that later but for ya’ll who’ve never been, let the legend himself, Kevin Walsh, show ya’ll what remains. It ain’t like it was— it ain’t even close— but fragments do remain.
—Caz Dolowicz

apocalypsebrooklyn-wwib

Caz Dolowicz was born on Sands Street in 1923; a man of virtue as well as vitality, he may, or may not, have found shelter in a Hudson Avenue assignation house in the summer of 1940. Once might have been an accident; twice, in those days… was good fortune!

“Apocalypse Flatbush,” photograph by Amber Tides

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