Williamsburg

A few weeks ago I was standing outside the Bedford L stop on a Friday night and a couple turbo bros (turbros?) walked past.  One asked, “Yo, where are we?” to which his companion—swathed in a state school sweater, board shorts and a hemp necklace—replied, “Williamsburg, yo!  There’s a million bars and everybody looks just like us!”  He was fucking thrilled (and obviously wrong).  I’ve been thinking lately about how what we see is filtered through the lens of our own interests and it occurred to me that perhaps my tedious derision for North Brooklyn hipsters has everything to do with what I see of myself in them (and, consequently, others).  I.E., the only thing keeping me from enjoying Williamsburg—with its many bars, restaurants, parks and venues—as much as Fratty up above is my own self-loathing.  So that sucked.

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