Interim: Homeless Hipsters?

A half-post as an homage to the Homeless Hipsters. Too emotionally drained to write any inspired content, so I will give you this Sight to See:















Why would anyone throw away a perfectly good blow-up doll? Still blown up, no doubt. Didn't even get a proper burial.

Another Sight to See: the Homeless Hipsters. Unfortunately, I didn't get a picture. I'll describe as best as I can: basically, we had your standard mid-twenties hipsters sitting next to the outside of a building on the sidewalk. Maybe they were a little dirtier. However, they held cardboard signs like that of, oh, the "War Vet in Need of Help, Will Take Anything," etc. Except these kids took a more . . . honest? Approach?

"NEED TO GET FUCKED UP."

These were the only words I caught, plus a doodling of a bottle of bubbly. There was some extraneous banter surrounding, but if I stared too long I would have had to give to the Drunk Fund (smart on their part). I also considered offering a dollar in exchange for a picture of them, but I didn't feel like encouraging them (picture shown is a very accurate example of what I saw, courtesy of latfh.com).

So . . . I'm wondering if they were actually homeless but still young enough to try and be cutting and clever in their quest for charity, maybe appeal to their audience . . . or if they were just some assholes that wanted to see how much beer money they could scrape together. Who knows. I do know that if I were an honest-to-goodness old homeless lady and I saw that, I might have put out my cigarette in the back of their hands. Ah, Recession.

"Williamsburg" or "I Moved Here Because I Heard It Was Cool and It Is."

Williamsburg, as most of you may know, is like the Wicker Park of New York. “Hipster Central,” most would call it. And, you know what? I'm not going to pretend I don't love it. Walking down Bedford Avenue a couple of days ago, I passed vintage store, vintage store, vegetarian restaurant, bar, bar, vintage store, boutique, vegan restaurant, record store, etc. You can understand the draw. I live for that shit.

I ducked into a Salvation Army to try and find some scarves with which I could decorate my hospital-walls bedroom (no luck. Not the greatest SalVo, but they did have plenty of kitschy records and a gorgeous dishware set that I would have bought if I had anywhere to put them). It started to downpour, and since I was sans umbrella and that familiar thrift-store smell was starting to make me a little woozy, I decided to make a dash for the nearest eatery.


I unded up at Bliss:













. . . which is a vegetarian (surprise!) joint that reminded me of a tiny version of Earwax. I ordered the black bean burrito from a charming blonde girl of indiscernible European descent. It was delicious, and I would order it again.

I also received some unsolicited philosophies as I took a piss:



















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Tonight, now. Tonight is "The Fourth of July." I thought my roommate, Mark (next blog post), was having people over. He is no longer doing that. I . . . well, you know. I have friends in New York. I DO. I spent about 18 hours with some of them last night and this morning. We drank bloody mary's on a rooftop in Bedstuy. But . . . well, the rest of my friends are out of town/impossible to get a hold of/have plans that I'd rather not awkwardly force myself into. Fortunately, I have plans for late tonight to meet a dear friend at the South Pacific stage door, but before that . . . nothing. I'm honestly considering buying a bottle of wine and just watching the fireworks from my roof. I mean, I like seeing movies by myself, right? It'll be like being IN a movie that takes place on a rooftop in Brooklyn on Independence Day. I'll call it . . . Independence . . . Day?

NEXT: "How now, Sirrah, your apartment looks just as good as your roommate!"

Why cough? Bushwick.

Up until yesterday afternoon, I had been subletting an apartment in Bushwick for my inaugural New Yorker weeks. Bushwick, for you Chicagoans et al, is basically what a person fairly unfamiliar with New York would picture when they think "Brooklyn": pretty run down, lots of loud music playing everywhere, people sitting outside a lot, a little scary to walk alone at night. Especially as me, Little White Girl in Glasses and Red Cowboy Boots. Growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, this was my first taste of being Different Than Everyone Else. It was good. Uncomfortable.

However, the place really does have its charms. For instance, a couple of Sundays ago was Puerto Rican Day (for lack of a better term due to my ignorance), so my entire street was a wash of flags, people, car horns, barbecue, and music. Kind of like any normal day in my neighborhood multiplied by fifty plus seventy plus Jennifer Lopez before she was famous - and I mean that in a good way.

Number two: I lived off of the Myrtle-Wykoff subway station. There is a resident homeless woman outside of it, and she - I shit you not - looks like this:



















Except her cape is made out of black garbage backs. It's actually really craftfully fashioned. One day she was licking an ice cream cone. The next she was smoking a cigarette. She is always mumbling to herself.

Yesterday was my final day in Bushwick. I stood at my stoop waiting for my car to pick me up to take me to my new place. A little black boy rode by on a scooter. He passed my door, turned around, and came back.

"Hi."

"Hi!" I said.

"We . . . you . . . you my friend."

"I'm your friend? Well, great! What's your name?"

"Lawrence."

"Well. Nice to meet, you Lawrence." We shook hands.

"Bye," said Lawrence.

"Bye!" And he rode away.

I came back about an hour later to say my final goodbye to my apartment and to get the rest of my belongings. And as I pulled my two suitcases down the street, Lawrence rode by again on his scooter.

"Bye," he said.

"Bye, Lawrence!"

"Have . . . have, have . . . have a s-s-s-super vacation!"

"Oh, I will, thank you!"

Thankfully, I made friends with my roommates and plan on returning to Bushwick each Tuesday night to watch NYC Prep on Bravo with them. I also hope to ride Lawrence's scooter, maybe share a popscicle with him.

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NEXT: "Williamsburg," or "I Came Here Because I Heard it Was Cool and It Is."

A Brooklyn Virgin

Three weeks ago, I moved to New York City. I packed two suitcases and a ukulele, a small nest of funds, and flew JetBlue. They fed me potato chips and I watched Friends reruns.

New York is a big deal. I could be cool and brush it off as "just another city, and I've lived in cities" but I've opted to accept myself as its Bitch. As a Midwestern gal, I'm kind of fragile. I cry a lot, I have a little anxiety, I'm a vegetarian, I hit a bird with my car a couple of weeks ago and sobbed as I watched it fluttering on the ground in my rear-view mirror. So, you know. I could use a little toughening up. To give myself some credit, I'm not a total flower: I'm fairly well-traveled, I walk very briskly, and my arms look (and only look) kinda buff. And I drink whisk(e)y.

And so: I chose to live in Brooklyn. Brooklyn fascinates me. It's beautiful and awful, lively and dead. It's where Da Cool Kids At. I think I like it. I think I like it so much that on this rainy/sunny/rainy/sunny afternoon, I've chosen to start a log, a ledger, an album, a blog. An account of my daily discoveries in this dirty little town. A public record of My First Time. Welcome to A Brooklyn Virgin.