In case you couldn’t tell from my baronial mustaches (which I have been cultivating since a hair first sprouted from my virgin chin like the first green sprig of spring), I have great ambitions in Bushwick, the land of beards of crappy craft beers.
Indeed, like yon Cassius, I have a lean and hungry look, and not just because of my steady diet of burritos and irony. I, too, want to enter into the ranks of the hipster nobility.
There are many ways to do so. Buying your title is out of the question, as the nobility is of course unemployed, and because of their minimalist lifestyle have no need for such trappings as “money”. One could attempt to marry into the larger Dominican population of Bushwick, but if one has his heart set on the hipster nobility, that is akin to marrying into the Spanish royal family to become the King of Portugal.
Another option is to open a cafe/venue/bar/concert space. I speak Spanish, and I do actually enjoy coffee, but there is one thing holding me back from a noble title as “BigAdam of Bushwick”: my mansion.
It is not the building itself that is a problem-all our appliances work and there is not water dripping from the ceiling. Nay, children, I must admit it is a problem with me, your aspirational aristocrat. No, I’m not trying to hide my hemophilia, or my “visions” or some Marquis de Sade-type dungeon deep within the bowels of my studio apartment.
Nay, as a result of my ascetic lifestyle, I’m afraid that despite my baronial mustaches, I am a poor host. Guests are left wanting for basic amenities. I own only one towel, so guests can either use my damp one and trust that I avoid my crevice-y bits or air dry (I force everyone to shower).
There are 3 blankets for 3 roommates, which means a guest can either a) sleep cold, or b) borrow one of our blankets, which some people are squeamish about.
If we have more than 7 people for dinner there is considerable jockeying for forks (resulting in one spirited fork “duel” between a now-deceased roommate and myself.)
We do have toilet paper, and a replacement roommate brought in his valise an iron. However, if more than one guest sleeps over after a night of aristocratic merry-making, they are compelled to either sleep on my camp mat (I graciously take the floor), or directly on the floor. Only one roommate has a bed large enough to share, but he suffers from a rare and rather disturbing combination of night terrors and sleep-groping.
Also, I guarantee that no matter how warm the apartment is the night before, you will wake up freezing and shivering in winter, no matter whose blanket you borrow or how many of my dirty clothes you pile atop your frigid self (what I term the “brooklyn blanket”).
Ah, children, minimalism is great for feelings of superiority, but it is also an affliction that keeps me from properly entertaining guests and thus reaching the exalted ranks of those ruffle-collared, leggings-and-codpiece-wearing nobles that stroll about the wide avenues of Bushwick with such majesty and grace.
I suppose I could enter the upper echelons through the Brooklyn priesthood, but unfortunately I have not enough patience or scholarly wisdom to spend my days holed up in a monastery (cafe) copying illuminated manuscripts and translating biblical treatises from the latin (transcribing lyrics to alternate-punk-rap-performance art websites and writing for a ‘Zine about fixed-gear bicycles).
Nay, like Shakespeare’s Cassius, my ambition will win me only pain and heartache–or the much worse nether region ache from my too-tight leggings.