Tuesday, September 19, 2006

At four o'clock yesterday afternoon I got a call from a gay actor slash waiter. Oddly enough, it was the most exciting call I'd gotten in a long time. He told me that, if we were still interested, he'd be happy to bring us into his home. It's a generic home: tiled living room, cheap carpeting in the bedroom and two flights up a disasterously skinny staircase. We are going to be located right by a cute bar that serves catfish poppers, one of the gayest bars in Brooklyn, and the place that gives you a pizza with every drink you order (which will definitely save us some money). We're also close to a natural foods store, an arcade bar with Pac Man, overpriced fusion restaraunts, and the Bushwick projects about a ten minute walk away. Yes, sirs and ma'ams, I am moving to Williamsburg, the hippest place in Brooklyn in 1995.

Williamsburg is the nexus of New York's youngish generations' culture folding back on itself and incubating the uniform, cynical, liberal, ironic because last year it was cool but it's not anymore because last year it was ironic because it was cool in the 70's, mindset that has stagnated art and politics and most of our music. And in two weeks I'll be part of the five percenters that commute from Lorimer to Manhattan wearing a tie to work.

This wasn't exactly my decision, or my ideal situation. If I could afford it I'd be living on Bond Street in a brownstone, or on Smith in that fancy new condo at the corner of State. This is a product of conveinience and economy. The L train goes right to 14th, so my commute will be a paltry 25 minutes, and the wife's will be about 15. There is also something exciting about living around the corner from a real music venue, and a short walk to some of the biggest in the city. Also, those catfish poppers.

So good luck to everyone moving, I'll be right there with you in a week and a half, and I'll try to document as much of it as possible to remind myself never to do it again.


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