Regular readers of The Brooklyn Paper know all about how reporter Mike McLaughlin got dumped and kicked out of his apartment in the same week of 2008 and have been reading about his attempts to rebuild his shattered life in these very pages. This week, we proudly present the final edition of “The Search,” after eight years of, well, searching.
And I’m even beginning to appreciate brunch.
You all remember that awkward guy railing against a certain overpriced mid-morning meal and chronicling my post-breakup life after I got dumped and lost my apartment that summer.
Well, you’ll be happy to know I’m living the dream.
It’s 2016: I’m still awkward, but now I have a home in Oakland and I’m marrying my girlfriend on Friday. And I owe it all to the Brooklyn Paper.
I remember that assignment, back in 2008, when I got dumped, and the Paper’s Barnum-like editor back then decided it would be fun to give the readers a window on my circus-like life: just dumped and newly homeless.
“It’ll be great — we’ll give them all a rooting interest in your recovery,” he said. “Or, of course, it’ll be an even better cautionary tale if you fail.”
I was dubious — but I also saw the logic. Here I was, homeless and loveless. Certainly there was no person better suited to cover Brooklyn’s horrific housing and meet markets than me.
I decided to channel my personal hero, Keith Richards. Now, of course, I’m no Keith Richards (heck, I’m barely even Mike McLaughlin), but I always admired reckless abandon, the way he rattles the cage of conformity, the way he bays at the moon of mediocrity, the way he spits in the face of, well, pretty much everyone.
That would be the path for me.
The first search didn’t go so well — every apartment I looked at was cramped, roach-filled, or so noisy that it reminded me of the apartment under the Thunderbolt in “Annie Hall.” Even when I finally settled on one, in Ditmas Park, a friend drew the only conclusion possible: “This place looks like it’s owned by Raskolnikov’s landlady!”
The second search — for love — went a lot better, and I have my experience writing the column to thank. See, during The Search, I went to every event I could: community board meeting, zoning board hearing, campaign rally, bar opening, you name it — all with my editor’s words ringing in my ear (“Get out there and play the field!”). No, I never met anyone on CB6, but I spent so much time on the prowl channeling my inner Keith that when I ran into that former girlfriend again, I was a different man making a very different impression.
My fiancee Emily is a beautiful, intelligent, and all-around amazing woman, but that isn’t why I’m writing today. This is all about the wisdom I gained and exploitation I put myself through by writing The Search.
She’s made me a better man forever, and even convinced me that brunch — which I once called a well-oiled gastronomic sham, a frivolous use of the midday hours and a swindle that preys upon people in relationships — is a dish best served warm.
Thanks for taking the ride with me all these years.
