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Never have I been so grateful to be a Bay Ridgite until tonight.
Dear faithful reader, after several months of no posts, if you're still reading my blog, one of several things is true.
You are:
a) just that, a faithful reader, who doesn't mind that I'm treating you like a booty call, expecting you to read any old trash I put out at 11:00 at night
b) a family member and/or close friend who knows that I've been working on my thesis for the past three months and therefore have not had time to blog
or,
c) bored out of your mind, and possibly unemployed since you're on Facebook at this time of night.
Whatever the reason, I am as grateful to you as I am to my beloved hometown.
On that note, I'll begin my tale. Christmas vacation this year, due to the fact that the holiday fell on a Sunday, is going super fast this year. Hell, it's already Tuesday night. So I had the urge to do something different tonight, possibly go to one of the most recently gentrified Brooklyn neighborhoods that no one would have touched with a ten-foot pole three years ago and attempt to find the Next Great Hole-in-the-Wall (I know, I keep saying it should be a reality show too). I voiced said urge to the hubby this afternoon, who is a notorious creature of habit, with surprisingly little objection.
At approximately 5:00 we set off for the train station. At approximately 5:02 we turned back.
The wind and rain were just as ravenous as the snow had been exactly one year ago. Despite each holding an umbrella and walking only half a block, Dave and I looked like we lost a water balloon fight with some young whippersnappers in our building.
So we turned back, agreeing that this was the preponderant reason why we decided to live in Bay Ridge, the fact that if there's shitty weather and we want to go out, we don't need to travel far. Stumble home and change your clothes. End of story.
After doing just that, a little while later we headed out to the Kettle Black, our go-to sports bar in the neighborhood since Dave wanted to watch the Miami-Boston basketball game. We quickly found a spot at the nearly empty bar and I spent the next couple of hours mentally debating over which head coach was more visually obnoxious, Doc Rivers or Erik Spoelstra. Tough call: Spoelstra's eyes make him look like the spawn of Satan, but Doc always seems annoyed at everyone. Turned out to be a pretty good game, though.
While out tonight, I took in my surroundings and realized that there are several benefits to being a Bay Ridgite. One glaring advantage is the apparent lack of hipsters in Bay Ridge. Don't get me wrong; a few wriggle their way in here and there, like the bespectacled, plaid-clad, PBR-chugging beanpole I encountered this evening. But spotting the occasional hipster is akin to seeing Mickey in our apartment: enough to gross me out, yes, but not sufficient reason to move out and run for the hills.
The hipsters have no doubt avoided Bay Ridge like they avoid razors and deodorant because of the 35-minute R-train ride into Manhattan. Anything longer than 15 is intolerable for hipsters. And that 35 minutes only leaves you in the Financial District. To get to Union Square (aka the Hipster Mothership) it takes at least 45.
Don't get me wrong; Bay Ridge is not for everyone. I'm not going to say that I didn't roll my eyes a little at the barely-legal Italian girls who came in at 8:30 and commented, "It's so early this place is still a restaurant!" I guess they were perturbed by the fact that the "dance floor" was covered with dining tables. Sweetie, it's Tuesday.
But as I get older and realize that the need to be hip is waning as fast as my metabolism, I've come to appreciate bars like Kettle Black more and more. Good food, good sports, a place to sit, an internet jukebox, and a buyback after only two beers.
Damn, it's good to be a Bay Ridgite.
