Turn Around Bright Eyes: The Rituals of Love & Karaoke

by Rob Sheffield

I lived downtown on John Street, right under the World Trade Center. My new neighborhood was not yet known as “ground zero.” It was merely the “financial district,” a place where nobody really lived, or even set foot except for jury duty, which meant in terms of real estate it was euphemistically described as “up and coming.” The streets reeked of dashed hopes and emptied bladders, with no view of the sky and barely any oxygen in the air. It was a bleak little neighborhood, even at the time. Getting blown up by terrorists did not sweeten its personality, believe me. Every now and then, maybe a couple of times a year, I pass through the financial district and marvel that it somehow keeps getting more depressing. They closed the Strand Bookstore Annex? Now it’s a Lot-Less Closeouts? I give up, financial district—how could you get any worse? Wait—the Dunkin’ Donuts is gone? Congratulations, financial district! You did it! And I’m so proud. Who’s a grim little hellhole? Who is? That’s right—you are!