We’re still new to Park Slope, but I hear that about ten years ago, the place was still fairly iffy, at least the parts away from Prospect Park.
Nowadays in Park Slope a “bad block” is one on which the sidewalk is so bumpy it causes perambulating offspring to waken.*
As in, “Don’t take the stroller up 3rd Street between 7th and 8th Avenues. The incline will make you sweat, and the sidewalk will make budding teeth rattle.”
On the other hand, if you want your slumbering little one to loosen his or her grip on the pacifying cell phone or digital camera, this might be a good block. Also recommended for stubborn pickle jars.
*Ours is the kind of neighborhood where parents might get their issue inflatable neck rests in order to keep them slumbering (even though the average garden hose is less flexible and resilient than a napping kid’s neck).
Speaking of neck rests, on the way to Vegas we flew on Song, Delta’s now-defunct budget line. Ours was the final flight for that particular crew. Not very comforting in terms of service to be expected. But they did all right, considering. They sold their last five neck rests for $5 apiece. No doubt to be resold on eBay for goads more. I almost took some airsick bags for a similar purpose, but didn’t (sorry, Mom and Dad).
The second-best thing about the flight was the drunken flirtation of the two girls in front of us with some random guy from a different row who “happened” to park his horny behind next to them in the post-restroom-break stretch during which the seatbelt sign conveniently lit up. Needless to say, he encouraged not only the flirtation, but also the drunkenness, which he fed with his own supply of fermented faux-Russian potato extract.
The best thing about the flight? The recorded safety chatter. They got Barry White – or someone who sounds a lot like him – to talk over slipcover music. Nobody says “inflatable slide” or “slip the mask over your nose and mouth” like the Walrus of Love. They should have sold the recording of that. iTunes, are you listening? Maybe that’s what got the girls in front of us primed for Mr. Testosterone (if his thinning hair is anything to go by).