A friend from college (and by 'friend,' I mean an upperclassman I spent most of my collegiate career crushing on) is in a band and I'm going to hear them play in Williamsburg tonight.
I am psyched for the show, but dreading the trek.
I do not like going to Williamsburg. Whenever I go there, I'm just struck by how unhappy everyone looks.
(Yes, this is round #12 of the "why is crankiness cool" debates.)
I'm no peppy cheerleader and my rebellious run with the wear-all-black-and-chain-smoke-morosely crowd was decidedly short-lived. I'm somewhere in-between except for one thing: I smile a lot.
I smile when I'm angry (an often-futile attempt to cover up my about-to-erupt fury). I smile when I'm nervous (a tic of sorts, I guess). I smile when I'm tired (wearily).And, yes, I do occasionally smile when I'm happy.
But my smile is out of place in Williamsburg, the haven of the hipsters. The only appropriate facial expression in the 'Burg is the holier-than-thou sneer. Other than that, it's wall-to-wall boredom as a 'cool' affectation. How miserable that must be for bands that go to play. There's no jumping around and enthusiastic clapping at the conclusion of a song, let alone a set. They think they're freaking Beatniks over there.
The Plan: Imbibe an inappropriate amount, then commence raucous cheering and clapping.
I may be out of place, but I'm going to enjoy myself and show it if it damn-near kills me.