Todd Terwilliger

I got into an argument with a gentleman last night over twitter. I had posted a tweet about his application (which I hashtagged) in which I questioned certain aspects of that application. Inevitably, sometime later, he responded. A few back-and-forths later, he tried to dismiss me as a troll. Now I’ve been around the internets long enough to know the cold, slime-slick claw of a troll when I see it and this wasn’t it. Besides, how can I be trolling in my own feed?

Things have been quiet lately around here, the sort of eerie quiet that inspires tales of death or, in my case, extreme apathy. However, in this particular case, nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, things are slogging steadily ahead here at Terwilliger HQ. Like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory after Slugworth’s betrayal, the gates are closed but the chimneys, productively and, perhaps, ominously, are still billowing with a hidden feverish activity.

I spent most of last night ensconced at the Brooklyn Public House which is, depending on who you talk to, either the best or worst new edition to my home turf of Fort Greene/Clinton Hill in Brooklyn. That it is a sign of the times for the neighborhood, no one questions. What it means, on the other hand, is up for debate, fierce debate. This is the chief problem with divination, ever since the first disheveled Homeric sage squinted his eyes into a muddle of thrown bones or a strange bird formation: one man’s vision of a divine face is another man’s vision of a lumpy Abe Vigoda. What the devil does it all mean? Everybody sees something different. This only is beyond a doubt: the neighborhood, it is a’ changing. You don’t have to venture inside the latest gastropub to see it, it’s there in the street. Just look at the cabs.