What is the last time you have opened up the pages of the L, New York Press, TimeOut, New York, The Voice…and not been met with some derisive mention of the so-called “B&T crowd”? Chances are, you’re leafing through the pages of a mag right now, whilst on the shitter, scanning through some caustic commentary; or, perhaps a fawning review of the latest trendy fusion brasserie, or admiring the latest avant-garde music venue that was formerly a Polish sausage-stuffing plant; and skipping over those gratuitous, seemingly harmless mentions of the ubiquitous New York “Bridge and Tunnel” gang.
Well, haters, your reign of unchecked hating’s over! Here’s one irate ex-Soviet who has just completed his last complementary Berlitz language tape, and he’s not amused. No longer content to watch from the sidelines, and armed with acid tongue and command of subjunctive mood and subordinate clause, I charge valiantly forth as a field marshal with a score to settle!
It seems you can’t turn any which way these days and not hear disparaging remarks about the guidos and guido-wannabes who, come TGIF time, shun scant homespun alternatives and flock to downtown Manhattan on the weekends. They come from all bridges, and all tunnels: Nassau County, Brooklyn, Queens, (Bronx?), perhaps Westchester, Connecticut, Staten Island, and—that most dreaded of all provinces put upon God’s green earth—Jersey. Although the particular peccadilloes of America’s worst social offenders are rarely identified anymore (explanations are the bane of Generation Irony), one imagines thick gold chains, tight Armani Exchange shirts (Juicy Couture for ladies), and gobs of gelled, spiky hair as prime social offenders.
Cross me off the list of “outer borough” champions. Forests of spiky hair and shirt collar boners send me into intense convulsions on a weekly basis. Put me on the list of hipster-assailants and anti-transplant bushwhackers. What I hate, and have always hated, is the unwarranted social elitism of people who believe that New York City starts in Prospect Park (if they’re feeling generous) and ends at 125th Street. So what if Chelsea from Chelsea, who chooses to spent her leftover rent money husband-fishing in the Meatpacking District, is forced to brush shoulders with Joey from Jersey, who likes to spend his credit on flashy rims and ecstasy? I thought that was the beauty of living in a real, diverse, cosmopolitan city?
Troops of the B&T brigade are often the scion of hardworking parents—first, second, third generation immigrants—the people who built this city, provided infrastructure for Duvet, Balthazar, and Bowery Ballroom. Yet Alex Trustfund and Sally Artstudent turn their noses at anyone who dares take more than 3 trains stops—or worse, a gas-guzzling automobile, into “New York” to violate the sanctity of their Saturday night.
So—yeah, perhaps the workaday crowd of Mikeys, Nickeys, and Igors likes to wind down at a fratboy bar or get down on a Eurotrashy dance floor lined with coke residue and flavored prophylactics. Maybe they opt for car shows and Rangers games over the latest fecal installation at Galapagos. Does that make them any less objectionable than you? Any less important? These are the guys who will rent you the Ft. Greene fixer-upper you’ll be sharing with four unemployed roommates, move your parents’ trust fund stocks into low-risk stocks, and handle your personal injury/divorce settlements ten years from now. What have YOU done for THEM lately?
When hipsters make their annual pilgrimage to Coney Island, converging on the holy Siren Fest stages, they tend to disregard bordering Brighton Beach, a neighborhood with much more flavor than nostalgia-heavy remnants of the soon-to-be-dismantled Coney Island boardwalk. These are people who (with a few, talented exceptions) move to New York to soak up some mystical mist, to drink from the broken fountain of inspiration, to lend authenticity to their extended visitation; tourists come to observe the austerity of those they will soon displace from yet another former hood. Yet they miss the forest for the trees.
Not that I’m complaining—the yuppification of downtown Brooklyn and the hipsterfication of the warehouse districts on the river have given me more culinary, bacchanalian, and musical reasons to escape from the cultural wasteland of southern Brooklyn… So where was I? Oh yeah: I’ll take FOBs over snobs any day… At least, that’s what I was trying to get at…
Well, haters, your reign of unchecked hating’s over! Here’s one irate ex-Soviet who has just completed his last complementary Berlitz language tape, and he’s not amused. No longer content to watch from the sidelines, and armed with acid tongue and command of subjunctive mood and subordinate clause, I charge valiantly forth as a field marshal with a score to settle!
It seems you can’t turn any which way these days and not hear disparaging remarks about the guidos and guido-wannabes who, come TGIF time, shun scant homespun alternatives and flock to downtown Manhattan on the weekends. They come from all bridges, and all tunnels: Nassau County, Brooklyn, Queens, (Bronx?), perhaps Westchester, Connecticut, Staten Island, and—that most dreaded of all provinces put upon God’s green earth—Jersey. Although the particular peccadilloes of America’s worst social offenders are rarely identified anymore (explanations are the bane of Generation Irony), one imagines thick gold chains, tight Armani Exchange shirts (Juicy Couture for ladies), and gobs of gelled, spiky hair as prime social offenders.
Cross me off the list of “outer borough” champions. Forests of spiky hair and shirt collar boners send me into intense convulsions on a weekly basis. Put me on the list of hipster-assailants and anti-transplant bushwhackers. What I hate, and have always hated, is the unwarranted social elitism of people who believe that New York City starts in Prospect Park (if they’re feeling generous) and ends at 125th Street. So what if Chelsea from Chelsea, who chooses to spent her leftover rent money husband-fishing in the Meatpacking District, is forced to brush shoulders with Joey from Jersey, who likes to spend his credit on flashy rims and ecstasy? I thought that was the beauty of living in a real, diverse, cosmopolitan city?
Troops of the B&T brigade are often the scion of hardworking parents—first, second, third generation immigrants—the people who built this city, provided infrastructure for Duvet, Balthazar, and Bowery Ballroom. Yet Alex Trustfund and Sally Artstudent turn their noses at anyone who dares take more than 3 trains stops—or worse, a gas-guzzling automobile, into “New York” to violate the sanctity of their Saturday night.
So—yeah, perhaps the workaday crowd of Mikeys, Nickeys, and Igors likes to wind down at a fratboy bar or get down on a Eurotrashy dance floor lined with coke residue and flavored prophylactics. Maybe they opt for car shows and Rangers games over the latest fecal installation at Galapagos. Does that make them any less objectionable than you? Any less important? These are the guys who will rent you the Ft. Greene fixer-upper you’ll be sharing with four unemployed roommates, move your parents’ trust fund stocks into low-risk stocks, and handle your personal injury/divorce settlements ten years from now. What have YOU done for THEM lately?
When hipsters make their annual pilgrimage to Coney Island, converging on the holy Siren Fest stages, they tend to disregard bordering Brighton Beach, a neighborhood with much more flavor than nostalgia-heavy remnants of the soon-to-be-dismantled Coney Island boardwalk. These are people who (with a few, talented exceptions) move to New York to soak up some mystical mist, to drink from the broken fountain of inspiration, to lend authenticity to their extended visitation; tourists come to observe the austerity of those they will soon displace from yet another former hood. Yet they miss the forest for the trees.
Not that I’m complaining—the yuppification of downtown Brooklyn and the hipsterfication of the warehouse districts on the river have given me more culinary, bacchanalian, and musical reasons to escape from the cultural wasteland of southern Brooklyn… So where was I? Oh yeah: I’ll take FOBs over snobs any day… At least, that’s what I was trying to get at…
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