Please Print this Dispatch

Retro-Rubbernecking in Pink Bowling Shoes

Since my arrival, I have felt perpetually redundant in my uber-hip new neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. There is nothing like sitting in a cafe that is named after a part of speech ¾ and realizing that you are part of the 80% of double-decaf-skinny-Americano-sippers writing in a journal. Here begins a new chapter of Emily Post place setting ¾ ashtray on the left, latte on the right, journal tilted, three inches from the sticky table edge. Yet, as the scene becomes more familiar, I am discovering the joys of what I call circumstantial hipster classification, nerd-watching, or retro-rubbernecking.

Let us take, as our first example, the adoption of decades. Williamsburg time warp applies to hipsters as well as housewares, but so far I have found little to trace back further than the 1920s. Perhaps this marks the distinction between Brooklyn and Bridgehampton. Maybe stamped on the bottom of old cane chairs in the Hamptons there are the slightly rubbed block digits of an 1919 expiration date. Anything made before then takes the Jitney bus to the beach; everything else reinvents itself in hipster heaven. In Williamsburg, cigarette cases and flasks step up to new times by doubling as wallets and water bottles. Absinthe may be back, but gauging by what people purchase on their way home from the L train, do not be surprised to find flasks of enriched light vanilla soy milk ¾ shaken with a twist. I can only assume the myriad vintage furniture stores serve the same clientele. Perhaps, like the board game Memory, we could match the 1950s Mary Jane's and pearl-buttoned cardigan to a set of pastel Pyrex mixing bowls. In the dusty loft of the late 60s Black panther look-alike we would find the pink and orange plaid sofa now chained (as if some eager young rebel without a couch might lift it on her way to buy American Spirits) outside of Ugly Luggage on Bedford Avenue. Speaking of American Spirits, she will carry these, not in her cigarette case wallet, but next to her "vintage" chrome cell phone in her patent leather hatbox.

I must pause here, for although these observations are historically based, they are also undeniably superficial, flippant, and increasingly tiresome. I am dreading the inevitable second coming of the 80s, heralded by Manhattan fashionistas ¾ or is it over already? Was that the extent of the wide red leather belts, Jordash jeans, fingerless lace hand-panties and black jelly bracelets? Visions of legwarmers and boatneck sweatshirts still dance in my head. It's nauseating ¾ let's move on to Example B of hipster identification.

Having recently looked for apartments, I can tell you that for every hipster there is an overpriced, underheated doorless pigeon hole with his name on it. Just take a peek at the flyers that line the streets: No dusty artists or musicians wanted. Well, brush yourself off, my oboe-playing friend. It's time to meet the people.

You will find that many of these rooms are short term sublets in old warehouses. Your room will, undoubtedly, be the one with the curtain door and shoddy partition walls. Do not be surprised to see a bathtub in the kitchen. Perhaps it holds plants, perhaps paint brushes, for you can be sure at least one roommate fancies himself a painter. In fact, it would be no surprise to me if there was some sort of quota for artists living together in this neighborhood. Within the cavernous central room, the painter claims the corner next to the wall of taped-up windows. The musician takes the corner by the inside wall, so as to turn the drum sets away from the stair. The clothing designer separates his corner with a curtain of material and attire in all stages. After a few of these visits, I began to see my own search as a backdoor tour of the underground art scene. Highlights included one potential roommate's series of Hugh Grant portraits, in various, mangled, Dali-esque states. Another adventuresome juncture involved a freight elevator full of angry Russian orthodox landlords in long wool coats. I met anorexic twin filmmakers on Roebling, a pack of depressive Israeli actors on Leonard, and a pair of divorcing furniture makers on Lorimer before I found a pigeon hole to call my own.

Photographers, painters, designers, dusty musicians ¾ anyone missing? Well, yes. The scavengers of ridicule, subletting spies in the house of life, suckers, such as myself, seduced by costume and self-invention . As much as I rant, sneer, and roll my eyes, I am secretly fascinated by this culture, or at least by what I can see of it from this ivory tower. Come visit ¾ I've got a 1940s typewriter, matching pink bowling shoes, and cases of diet coke in a bottle.

Phoebe Damrosch-Williams is a member of the Dispatch editorial collective and editor of Coltura. This is the latest piece in her new Fact & Fiction column.

(c) Copyright 2002 Phoebe Damrosch-Williams