Williamsburg blogger Bad Advice, who knows how to unload with some cutting words sometimes, went all out yesterday with a rant that started out to be about neighborhood bar Royal Oak and ended up being about way more than that. We go to the copy and paste:
Every night the sidewalk out front is clogged with coked-up jackasses braying at the moon. Sleep is out of the question unless you’ve got earplugs and air conditioning.
It used to be that the people who moved to Williamsburg—and the East Village before that—were the types who were shunned in high school. They were picked last in gym class, probably suffered an astigmatism and would much rather read a good book than attend a sporting event. They didn’t fit in in their home towns, so they gravitated here. Sure, they got on my nerves with their art projects and insistence on calling their apartments their “space” (eg, “you have to come see what I did with my space.”). Pretentious, no doubt, but these days, when I sit next to an earnest couple discussing their shared passion for Derrida and Galouis ciggies, I feel not derision, but nostalgia.
The latter-day hipster may look like the old-school hipster, but scratch the surface of their kicks and you’ll discover the difference. These new kids were popular in high school—witness their fondness for Dodgeball. I mean, dodgeball!?!? Dodgeball day was the stuff nightmares were made of when I was a kid. My heart still quickens when I hear the phrase because I recall my days as a target all too vividly.
These new kids don’t read books so much as collect them as conversation pieces. The women tend to work in PR and the dudes work in tech. They all have perfect teeth to go with their skinny jeans and have the arrogance and sense of entitlement that comes from knowing that no matter how badly they fuck up, they will never go hungry because mommy and daddy have them covered. They don’t live in “spaces,” they live in over-priced, parentally subsidized, condos with a park vu.
For some reason these people also like to “woo” once they have a drink or ten. I’ve never had an urge to throw my fists to the heavens and scream “woo” when I’m drunk, but maybe that’s because I’m of hearty Irish stock and we can (mostly) handle our booze. Nor do I hang out with people who “woo.” Never have. Perhaps that’s something you only pick up at a Seven Sisters school. These are the Royal Oak crowd.
Do make sure to read the full item. It really is worth it.
