This incredibly long paean by Liz Robbins in today’s New York Times about aging former Meatpacking District restaurateur & scenester Florent Morellet.  A mercifully short excerpt from this slavering epic:

In his raspy, French-accented voice, Mr. Morellet extols the potential development of Newtown Creek’s waterfront (post-pollutants), analyzes North Brooklyn’s messed-up grid and pushes for more skyscrapers to accommodate the city’s growth. He moved to what he considered the most viable edge of Bushwick, but he sees the boundaries soon pushing farther east on the M and L lines. He considers the two dirtiest words in the English language to be “nostalgia” and “gentrification.” He especially hates “the g-word,” as he calls it — but only because neighborhoods fight it.

That’s what’s happening now in Bushwick. A plan to rezone nine square blocks for retail and high-rise apartments has upset longtime residents and the likely new councilman, Antonio Reynoso, 30. Artists met this summer to discuss whether it was better to join the development bandwagon or be swept away by it.

Mr. Morellet, who read about the meetings in a local blog, thought they belonged in the TV parody show “Portlandia.”

“Cities change,” he said. “Young people are going to be pioneers in neighborhoods and make them livable. Wealthy people are going to move in and young people are going to move to the next neighborhood, and the next neighborhood. We have tons of neighborhoods to rebuild. Yes, the prices are going up. That’s great.”

To which those of us who are not discoing away every night in our luxurious retirement can only say: Fuck You. As if Brooklyn needs any more ultra-rich douchebags coming over from Manhattan to advocate for building luxury skyscrapers (none of them providing affordable housing) in the middle of previously low-rise working and middle class neighborhoods and trying to make their cool little “discovered” corner of Brooklyn more like, you know, Manhattan. Please go away or die already. You say “we have tons of neighborhoods to rebuild”… until we don’t and we are all living somewhere near JFK with jets roaring over our heads every 5 minutes because that’s all we can afford. And did not the editor think to tell Miss Robbins to maybe cut her ode to Mr. Fabulous here by, oh, I don’t know, 15 or so paragraphs?  It boils down to a fawning story about a guy who owned a restaurant and is now on his 3rd midlife crisis discovering his personal fountain of youth in Bushwick, not exactly Pulitzer-worthy journalism. Jesus wept, at 3000 words who could possibly make it to the end of this damn thing? I dare you to try to finish it without wanting to throw your computer out the window.