Today's Local News - Brooklyn Barbie and "Professional" Models

The Charlie's Angel I wanted to grow up to be. As a preteen, Jaclyn Smith was my ideal woman.

Joseph, Little Joe and I took the J train into the city for some 'family time.' The train was relatively crowded, but we managed to score seats. At the Flushing stop a young woman wearing tight dark blue jeans, knee high flat black boots, and a cropped black jacket got on and stood with her back to us, holding one of the center poles. Joseph and I were awestruck by her legs. They were amazing. Long and lithe and well muscled and just gorgeous. Unusually, no unnaturally so. We'd never seen jeans fit like that. We couldn't tear our eyes away. It was embarrassing. We were completely under the spell of those perfect legs. The rest looked good too. Nice butt and hips, and a small waist, which her boyfriend, a swarthy red-headed guy with rampant facial hair and a foot shorter than her, immediately encircled with his arm. "Mine!" that arm yelled. "Mine. Mine. Mine." Her luxurious wavy mahogany hair fell past her shoulders. Thankfully a seat opened up and she sat down, sparing us from ogling her legs further. Her boyfriend found a seat across the aisle and they made sappy in love faces at each other. When we got off the train at Canal Street I was still stunned. Those legs. I could have stared at them forever.

Anyway, back to Bed-Stuy. I received a recent email in response to the ad we have up on Craigslist for the smallest room in our house (as the current housemate residing in that room has decided to relocate to the soon-to-be vacated larger garden room downstairs). For some reason, whenever I post an ad for this room, I get emails from women who call themselves 'professional models.' Their emails are brief, with many misspellings, and strange grammar and syntax. They usually claim to be 'very easy going' and 'get along with everyone.' Then when I google them I discover Myspace or Friendster pages showing photos of equine faced white women with overbites and badly cut long hair, wearing too small neon tank tops barely covering their enormous boobs, drunkly hugging men holding pitchers of beer somewhere in middle America. But not a mention of a modeling agency anywhere. Perhaps they call themselves what they hope to be and moved to New York, like many others, to get discovered. Or could 'professional model' be a euphemism for something else? And why do these women want to live in our house of all places? Our quiet, vegetarian, gardening, activist, artist, family-oriented household in Bed-Stuy?

Then coming home from our outing after dark, we passed a woman striding down the sidewalk. Bleached blond hair pulled in a high ponytail, bright make-up caked on her ordinary features, huge dangly plastic earrings, a short wrap dress and belted trench coat that both pulled back as she walked, displaying her beige pantyhose covered legs (nowhere near as nice as Brooklyn Barbie's) all the way from crotch to white stilettos. Carrying a knock-off Coach handbag over one arm. I thought she looked Eastern European, Joseph though she looked midwestern. Either way, she's not the usual person you see strolling in our neighbourhood. Especially at night. How did she manage to walk past the projects in that provocative outfit? All this proves that the neighbourhood is most definitely changing. But into what? A Polish escort service?

Food Dimensions now open until 11pm everyday. 10 pm is a great time to shop as it's completely deserted.

Brooklyn weather: damp and cool.