Dropping Bombs on Your Mom

Manhattan on a Friday night. There can be little that is more soul crushing that hanging out in your own downtown apartment on a Friday. The whole city circles you, a reveling buzzard. The throngs of Williamsburg kids flew by me tonight, they were going from the L stop to some rad Alphabet City bar and I was going to the bodega for a 40 of Bud Light.

The small stretch of 14th street that I walk down has awesome kids with great, ironic hair lurching past. If I keep walking I know that there’s the Blarney Cove ahead just another half block. Just past the video store is that majestic shotgun bar. Popeye is there, hugging people and limping to pour another gin and tonic. The large latina girl, I forget her name but I remember her telling me how much she liked getting fucked by two guys at the same time—and it was ok because I wasn’t her type so she would never have to worry about freaking out a future prospect, she assured me of that. That bar smells like bars, the memory of smoke informs the air. It’s the sort of bar that you can get drunk in and belt out “Total Eclipse of the Heart’’ with your girlfriend and the chick you both plan on fucking later.

The Blarney Cove might be nice but I opt to skip the hangover and drink myself to sleep, the weekend’s ahead and there’s at least one epic night planned. I must save my strength.

I just got back from a stroll around Williamsburg. Oddly enough, I have been living in New York for six months now and this is the first time I’ve been to Williamsburg in the day time and it’s only one stop away on the L, which, incidentally stops right at the end of my block. The first thing that popped into my head when I emerged from the train station was uptown Butte, Montana. Go figure.

The vibe is great—hip, strangely unattractive kids everywhere, spilling out of cafés, bars, and record shops onto Bedford Ave. The streets have the vibe and graff style of Fitzroy in Melbourne or Newtown in Sydney. Both of which could claim to be Williamsburgs long lost spiritual twins in the antipodes. And the housing is cheap, I walked by a real estate agent advertising $1850 for a 1 bedroom (with a yard!). Imagine that in the rarified market of lower Manhattan.

Wandering around these streets I can’t help but feel like I’ve shown up just as the party was winding down. Though, with the blood still wet on Wall St. I don’t doubt that there are interesting things on the horizon. The march of gentrification will be beaten back for better or for worse (yoga studios are gay but not getting mugged is pretty sweet). The economy is in the shitter and people are about to get squeezed. Misery sparks art, or, rather, frustration sparks expression and some expression becomes art. Some becomes crime. And the rest spurs us to self destruct—further inspiring the arty people. Maybe pop culture will get less boring.

In any case it seems like quite the cool little joint and I could imagine taking up residence there. Maybe. Then again as soon as I stepped foot on the Manhattan side of the East River I felt nice and cozy again.