Every so often in my neighborhood it so happens that I run across a shit-head. Like I did a few weeks ago, at the bagel place. A nasty person had some nastiness to spill and, me being me, I was upset for days. I don't even want to get further into it. Suffice to say, I live in a neighborhood ripe with fullofitness. (Note: if you read "fitness" in that word, you're reading it wrong.) This place has made me, though essentially yummy, slightly bitter, like a Brussels sprout.
Back when I moved here, in the 90s, I was proud of where I lived. Williamsburg was then a quiet enclave, a small town of sorts, populated by like-minded people and those who couldn't afford rent above $500. I loved my neighborhood. I had friends here. We were happy to look at Manhattan via the broken down, needle-infested mess that used to be the waterfront. We sipped on our cheap wine bottles (purchased at the only wine store then, which had bullet-proof glass protecting the alc) on the broken down pier jutting into the East River and we felt slightly sorry for our fellow humans over there in the big city. They may as well have been on a different planet. Until they discovered the L-train.
So after the bagel store incident I was truly ready to dismiss where I live as an overpriced, overvalued, overhyped arrangement of ugly blocks with no soul left to speak of. What stopped me from a full-on hate-attack was the fact that I recently met two really lovely gals in this very place. Warm, funny and talented ladies, who are the antithesis to the too-cool-fer-skoolers parading down Bedford Avenue. They made me question my current knee-jerk reaction to this part of town. As long as a little sweetness and humanity is hiding behind the vinyl siding facades of W-town, I think my old home is still alive.
Here they are:
