media. music. feminism. food. city-dwelling. story-telling. and other things.

It was around midnight Saturday in the (somewhat infamous and somewhat despised) McKibben Lofts in Bushwick, Brooklyn, and I was with a small group gathered in the living room of unit 1G. Downstairs, in the loading-dock-come-bedroom-and-stage-area, a Japanese opera-singing party was in full swing (hosted by G roommate Mariko, a costume designer who’s also some sort of spokeswoman for American Idol in Japan), but upstairs it was just a handful of roommates and neighbors, slightly tired and slightly bored. There was talk of a party on the third floor of the neighboring warehouse/loft, but no one seemed too enthused. Someone popped on Anchorman. Someone took a shower.

I went upstairs to the roof to get some fresh air and muse on the situation. My friend that lives in McKibben likes to tease me about DC’s lack of “youth culture,” and taunt me with tales of Brooklyn’s manic possibility, its energy and depravity. I was feeling a little smug. Sure, last night’s Knyfe Hyts/NinjaSonik/Team Robespierre show at the Death by Audio show space in Williamsburg had both lived up to hipster stereotypes and been one of the best shows I’d seen in a long time (who knew live music was so much better when everyone is filthy, sweaty and drinking from 40s and keg beer in a graffiti-covered un-air-conditioned basement shithole with a toilet to rival the one in Trainspotting and people who are either too fat or too skinny taking off their shirts?—to say nothing of the amazing, frantic energy of the bands), but look at tonight. Everyone was tired from being at Coney Island all day, and now they were just taking it easy, casually drinking, not doing much of anything. Whatever, McKibs, whatever Brooklyn, I was thinking. You’re not so different than DC.

And then a massive DJ-party broke out on the roof.

Bushwick’s finest, under the cut.