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Beadel Debevoise can dig it. Meredith Brosnan didn’t grew up on Avenue L & if Dublin has its own Rockaway Parkway, James Joyce never wrote about it, not even in Finnegans Wake. Which leaves Brooklyn literature where? Drunk, again, longing for the apostrophe in Flann O’Brien at Denis J. Ferris Bar on Fort Hamilton Parkway? (Which does not traverse Gowanus.) As an extra in that old Gang Starr video– ya’ll know the one… c’mon! (Ask the Music Director.) Ordering Haitian from a Flatlands Avenue takeout joint? (Ask the Food Writer.) Taking photographs from the Livonia Ave walkway between the BMT Canarsie & IRT New Lots lines? (Ask Swan, or BZA.) Speaking for myself in a totally fake Windsor Terrace Irish accent, I found it at the barrel end of the Pookah McSplatter, formerly of Long Island City & currently hiding behind a slightly used copy of Marquis De Sade’s Juliette at Book Culture, 536 W. 112th St in Manhattan– check the French section.


The Publisher notes: For those who want to hear Jim Knipfel, the jovial Brooklyn pulp writer is scheduled to be on the Leonard Lopate show, WNYC, Tuesday at 1 pm. Warm up those radios!

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