A couple years ago, Gawker posted a great piece on “Brooklyn’s Most Precious Neighborhoods” that featured Cobble Hill, Carroll Gardens and Park Slope—indeed three of the most twee and fairyland-like neighborhoods in existence in the entire history of humankind, filled with overpriced coffeeshops and kids stores that sell $150 dresses for two-year-olds.
If you’ve watched HBO’s new series, “Bored to Death” you know what I’m talking about. I really wanted to like that TV show because I enjoy some of Jonathan Ames’ writing, but alas, I cannot, as the protagonist, played by the Jason Schwartzman, is just another fucking NYC manchild pussy who will whine to you about needing to be held, but doesn’t know the first thing about how to find your clit. The neighborhoods in that show? That is Precious Brooklyn.
Anyway, I have been a resident of Precious Brooklyn for over four years now! Am I more precious? Hardly. Why do I live there? Because it’s that, or suffer the concrete dog shitpark that is Bushwick or similar up north, where the hipsters pass the Pabst and HPV freely. So, I choose to exist among a few Stroller Moms and Hot Dads in lieu of Leotards and Beards. It’s quiet and, aside from a few moments, fairly peaceful.
I’ve noticed, however, that in the last year or two my neighborhood is becoming evermore precious. This is a feat I never thought possible, but alas, there it is. Here are just a few things that send me into a semi-rage these days:
- More poncy clothes stores. Yes, they’ve always been there, but there seem to be more of them selling $200 Jellies—i.e. the disgusting, uncomfortable, do-not-breathe footwear from the ’80s. Also, I hate Bird. I think I’ve been in there twice and the girls are complete bitches when they should be kissing my ass because I am their target demographic—i.e. young, thin, and I like to buy pretty dresses. So, fuck you, Bird. Get out.
- Trader Joe’s is too far away. It just is.
- Ok, American Apparel is everywhere. Fine. (Disclosure: I like their T-shirts.) But the Precious Halloween-y setup they have going on now in the display window? Fucking “Grease.” Now, I know that the soundtrack to “Grease” or thoughts of “Grease” or even the opening to “Summer Nights” sends 19-year-old girls into a pre-orgasmic state that often leads to keg stands and group singalongs, but it doesn’t take a whole lot to excite someone who’s never given more than two proper BJs in her life. Take down that fucking display already.
- Faux speakeasies. Oh, wow. Can I go to a place that’s really new construction that is distressed to look like it’s really old and have wannabe-actors in white pressed shirts and bow ties and vests and cumberbunds serve me overpriced rye whiskey and amaretto in tiny glasses for $13 a pop? See Bird above.
- Friday and Saturday nights. My ’hood has turned into the new LES/Meatpacking area. Dickbags from State Island and Jersey come hooting through, tromping up and down Smith St., teetering on their heels in trashy outfits, yelling, vomiting and driving up the prices for all of us. Amateurs.
- Bouncers. Really? You’re a place on Smith St. and you need a velvet rope and big black guy?
On a side note, I have yet to see “Where the Wild Things Are”—in fact, I may never see it—because a friend warned me that it may be too precious for my tastes. Lately, it seems that I am suffocating in a Sea of Preciousness—from bands, to clothes, to movies, to pop culture. Am I the only one?
(Ed. Note: Listened to AC/DC while composing. No kittens or puppies were harmed during this rant.)