Park Slope, Brooklyn. August 28, 2011. After two days of corkscrew tension wound up by relentless media hype and proclamations of devastation by everyone from New York 1 weathermen to the President, Irene’s failure to amount to much more than a temper tantrum gives way, in Park Slope, to a strangely annoyed relief. This tree barely scratched the car, falling over it instead of on it; I’m tempted to give the birds credit for the damaged sign, and this intersection, which floods in any twenty-minute thunderstorm, hasn’t earned a damn gangplank.
It’s clear, however, that we were spared conditions that left much of the East Coast in bad shape. Frustration is a luxury. 
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