I’d like to thank the borough of Brooklyn, and the neighborhood of Williamsburg in particular, for accepting me when I moved here, unwittingly hot on the heels of every other hipster. At the time I thought seemed edgy and cool to live there. I didn’t realize how evanescent that coolness was (and lest you think I harbor delusions of grandeur, I have no doubt that my arrival was *the* catalyst for the nascent uncoolness of Willamsburg Today, but that’s a whole ‘nother story). Now when I find myself forcing my way down Bedford Ave. on any given weekend (my new game: Was that Bar/Restaurant/Store There Last Week?), I see the neighborhood has transformed itself into what on the outside looks like this boundlessly happening destination. Underneath, it’s a carbuncular, wheezing old bastard, our own little Telluride, where no one who works here can afford to live here anymore, full of trustafarians and Real. Live. Yuppies. with BMWs and JP Tod driving moccasins and double strollers.
5 years ago I used to sit at parties and listen to the Bitter Old Artists recount what it was like here during the Manifest Destiny era of the mid-80s. “It used to be rare that you wouldn’t find a dead body in your hallway in the morning,” they’d opine. “Yup, back then I had a 5,000 square foot loft that only cost 75 dollars a month, and it came with an unlimited supply of mig wire and Olympia Beer. Of course, at night, teaming hordes of CHUDs would come and smash all our windows, but still, we were thankful for what we had.”
I’m rambling. I miss the old codgers, despite their fantastic notions of what Williamsburg used to be (as my grandmother said often, “You can’t polish a turd.”). Especially when you can’t swing a dead cat on Bedford Ave. (erstwhile hobby of mine) without hitting an emo kid or a Pat-Benatar-wannabe with shaved eyebrows and a foolish, asymetrical haircut or the kid who probably went to Deerfield Academy yet as an adult has chosen to embrace this bizarre white trash chic replete with mullet and government issue eyeglasses. You know, I may have made Williamsburg uncool, but at least *I* understand the provenance of your ironic get up–do you? (Incidentally, who is responsible for desecrating perfectly good metal t-shirts with spangles and gathering? what gives?)
And finally, fuck electroclash! If we’re going to be stupidly nostalgic over shitty ’80s music, I say we bring back Antmusic. Watching us is stopping you from cruising Ugly Avenue.
Nurse, where’s my nembutol?
Stroke me.
