Blood issued from my eyeballs the other day when I had the misfortune to intersect with the Times' painful-to-even-scan review of this tepid, uninspired turd.

The mainstream publishing establishment seems to love disgorging profit-turning rechauffe of this sort. (Yes, I'm aware the proceeds from the sale of this item benefit "Develop Don't Destroy Rich, White, Brownstone Brooklyn.") That may have something to do with the preference of the Brooklyn Literati Old Guard to read the same dozen authors ad infinitum, who not only "live in the neighborhood" but write about it, too! How quaint.

Pure incestuousness.

There is a salient sentence in the review I mention. Savor it if you will: "But many of the essays spring from places like the Heights, Williamsburg and the leafy neighborhoods near Prospect Park, not Flatbush, East New York or any of those grim stretches between East New York and the Brooklyn Bridge."