"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!"