I”€™ve often pondered what will happen when the current crop of gentrifying millennials, raised off in the provinces, indoctrinated in Cultural Marxism for 16-plus years, will react under to the realities of city life. What is the net impact over time of urban jungles that seethe outside their windows instead of being safely encased in Jim Carroll poems or concern-trolling outrage porn pieces on Gawker?

Familiarity breeds contempt. It’s easy to support left-wing thugs at PBR keg parties in Vermont and Oregon. It’s another thing to do so when they”€™re yelling at you while you eat. Manhattan brunchers aren”€™t right-wing cop worshippers now, though I can scarcely think of a better way to transform them into such. To some degree, one can ignore the “€œvibrancy”€ of an “€œemerging neighborhood”€ in a loft four stories above street level. It’s harder to tune out when it’s yelling at you during your Sunday nosh. “€¨I, for one, welcome these unwitting brunchtime recruiters of the new urban right. I”€™m sure they”€™ll have an impact”€”just not the one they hoped for.



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