Sadtrombone.com

This is what a burst housing bubble looks like:

Brooklyn sunset.

Brooklyn is

Three parts brick, one part mortar. Mix.

Add two parts paint for authenticity. Splash of skinny jeans for irony.

A Brooklyn staple.

No, I'm not talking about the Dodgers of old, the pizza of your grandfather, or the prettiest bridge south of the GW. I'm referring to hipsters.

Obviously.

Brooklyn sunset.

Welcome to Brooklyn.

I'm not quiet about the fact that I spend most of my time not enjoying Brooklyn's finest offerings. CW's birthday a few weeks ago was one of my first adventures into the great unknown of the skinny jean world. Not only did I survive (I'll be honest, I had my doubts), but it made me begin to think that there really is something to this place.

Tonight the bar was raised.

My friend CM and I hit the Brooklyn pavement for what turned out to be a little tour of Billyburg. We started at Spuyten Duyvil, a charming (and packed) international beer bar. We found a corner past the bar to stand out of the way of that constant artery of moving bodies. You know, the one that travels from door to bar to bathrooms and back again; it's the bar equivalent of a riptide.

ANYWAY.

We sucked down a few cold drafts here while commenting on everyone and everything. And by we, I meant me. After I had had my fill of forced irony (and two delicious brews), we were off to what would become an epic journey back to my childhood.

The second stop-off was Full Circle Bar on Grand Street. One click to their website and it's easy to see why we were there (besides the $3 cans of Genny Light) - skee-ball.

I consider myself a pretty humble individual when it comes to sport and athleticism; very rarely will you hear be reminiscing about my adolescent victories, but skee-ball falls into a category of special situation. Understand that I was raised on two things: fireworks and boardwalk games. My grandmother lived in the quiet town of Pt. Pleasant Beach, and I spent many a rainy day at the Jenkinson's boardwalk arcades. Water gun into the clown's mouth? Please, I'll win you biggest stuffed bear. The claw game? Other kids used to give me their money in order to taste victory. Skee-ball? Why don't you ask CM? She learned the hard way.

Welcome to Brooklyn.

Multi-borough birthday.

Dinner in Brooklyn, drinks in the East Village.

The former was a first for me. As I was guided through the neighborhood by my roommate, I quickly realized that I somehow made it 3.5 months without going out to dinner in Brooklyn. Takeout? Sure. The food is generally fantastic, don't get me wrong. But I still wonder why I've avoided exploring Billyburg to a greater extent. Note to self.



Regardless, dinner was at Arepa Arepa on Havemeyer (yeah, I don't know where that is either) for a friend's birthday. Closed off to our small group, the place was adorable, cozy, and delicious. Did I mention BYOB? Clearly the reason there was at least one bottle of wine per attendee. Friends, food, and no corkage fee? Yes, please.




Oh, and the latter? Been there, done that; going back again. But being out for the first birthday of the year made me realize something.

Less than a month. Officially in the "mid-to-late 20's" category. Bloody hell.

Scotch, please.

Mustached corn dogs.

Somewhere between "one more drink" and "what time is it?" an executive decision was made to leave the vast land of Brooklyn and hunt down corn dogs. In the process, fake mustaches were discovered being dispensed from the type of machine normally reserved for baseball cards or shiny stickers. Corn dogs were purchased; some consumed immediately, others jammed into coat pockets for the trip back to Brooklyn.

Did I mention LP was back in town? This should all make sense now.

Antique perfection.

Well, today was a flashback.

Antiques were part of my life growing up in northwest New Jersey. Perhaps this doesn't come as a surprise; I grew up in a town with no zip code, after all. Antique shops dot the streets of Andover, Lafayette. People had garage sales the way we have happy hours now. I spent weekends with my brother and father walking the abandoned tracks of the Lackawanna Cut-off in our pursuit of glass insulators (pictured). They were worth less than a recyclable bottle, but it didn't matter. It's what we did; and we were damn good at it. You know, just three boys climbing trees in pursuit of antique glassware.

So today - yes - a flashback.

I spent much of the morning and early afternoon exploring the Brooklyn Flea, a collection of 100+ "vintage" vendors packed into the old Williamsburg Saving Bank. I woke up to a text message from the friend I was meeting, saying, "pack your camera." Like really, I'd miss this photo opp? I. Think. Not.


The building itself is delicious eye candy. Once obviously a bank, it's now available as a rental space. Sure, it's nice to have Chase on every single corner in Manhattan; but this space is simply beautiful.

Vendors carried an almost overwhelming amount of stuff. I say stuff because the word vintage doesn't come to mind; it's a term used too freely in the city. This was all stuff I've seen before, crammed into tiny mom and pop shops that smelled like dusty piano sheet music and Virginia Slims. It would do us city folk some good to take a weekend trip to the endless rows of shops tucked away north and west from here; the towns themselves left over from another time.

More picture taking than shopping commenced today, but I still managed to buy a set of typewriter cuff links. I'll be back next weekend for a closer look at the goods. Check out the rest of the photos here on Flickr.

Heading somewhere; going nowhere.

Not much can be accomplished while waiting for my career boxes to show up on my doorstep. Sleep in. Coffee. Laundry. Sounds like Sunday. Feels like Sunday.

It's not Sunday.

What are you doing home, vacation? My roommate inquires.
Something like that. I was fired yesterday.
Fired? Like you lost your job?
I did lose my job.
But weren't you working crazy hours? Her head tilted from left to right, like she was debating whether I was pulling a fast one on her.
You were never around.
Now I am.
Good. That's going to be good.

L train, 1st Ave stop.

Friday night lights.

The city is at its most beautiful from afar. Up close, it's nonstop. Crowded streets. Crowded restaurants, bars, and parks. Jammed highways and side streets. One hundred different people making one thousand different noises. But from the distance and over the hum of the BQE the lights of midtown and downtown are calming. It, as in city city, is there but it's not. It's reachable but far enough away that I can hear jet planes overhead. It's, well - nice over here. And by nice I mean Brooklyn.

Side note - if you have 4 hours of your life to spare, I highly suggest searching You Tube for planes. Plane landings, take off's, whatever. Crashes if you're sick. Or bored. The above link is just an example of reasons why I'm happy that I fly through JFK on a regular basis.

This isn't Kansas anymore. Nor is it Jersey.

Here's the late-night view from a bar in Williamsburg (name unknown). The bar achieved instant hip status among the locals by being cash only. Seriously people - take plastic. Many New Yorkers - myself included - carry a metro card, two dimes, and a will to survive in our pocket. Please give us a way to pay for our beers. We're already getting jacked by the prices, why rub it in with the $2.50 service charge that your uber-convenient ATM steals?