Metropolitan Diary: A Brooklyn Tale of Woe for the Belt Parkway Dear Belt Parkway (a Brooklyn tale of woe, with a soupçon of Staten Island thrown in for good measure), I despise you, Belt Parkway. You are just miles and miles of miserable tie-ups, never-ending construction, and gut-wrenching "signs" (both literal and figurative), that are, to put it mildly, less than truthful. For instance, why do you welcome me to Brooklyn, Belt Parkway, with a "How Sweet It Is!," when you really mean "What you lookin" at?" Why, parkway Mobil stations, do the signs say "Gas Left" when you are all out? Why, Department of Transportation, do you warn me that "Lanes Narrow" when you mean to say: "Lanes Nonexistent. Feel free to carve out your own. We dare you to call 511 [in an emergency]. Either way, we won't pick up. Why, Belt Parkway, do you proclaim "Men at Work: Fixing Bridge Pylons," when you actually mean, "Men fixing to work, watching bridge pile-ons"? Why, when I pass Knapp Street, am I suddenly sleepy? And, why, when I pass Sheepshead Bay, am I imagining an inlet of lamb stew? And, nearing the end, why do you finally, across the Verrazano Bridge, lead to Victory Boulevard, when, in fact, all I feel is a crushing sense of defeat?