I can just hear Martin Scorsese. His high pitched, supersonic voice ranting and bemoaning the news that's yet another reminder of the bygone days of his childhood. Of the days that inspired his works of art that are celluloid dreams of the neighborhood's current tenants, who are hoping to use a s(p)lice of that inspiration to replicate the feeling of life vérité, vestiges of its own history, for their own (commercial) success.
Ain't gonna happen.
Where you used to find pickles and pastrami, now you find plaid and PBR.
Where you used to find plaid and PBR (and still do, but at a diminishing rate), now you find polos and piña coladas.
The Doghouse is a sports bar that, according to the above Grub Street article, will boast huge flat-screen TVs, Yankees memorabilia, skee ball and pool tables, oversized Sex on the Beach drinks, karaoke nights, beer pong competitions (!!!!), free hot dogs all night (ok, I could deal with that one), half-off margaritas for Monday Night Football, and a red-lit downstairs lounge that will be manned by a discerning doorman and his guest list.
No word on when it's officially open (or if it's already open -- saw a picture but couldn't find any official listing), but this is a big deal for the LES and its recent hipster history. Walking through the streets of the LES in the past 6-7 years, there was nary a wide legged pair of pants, symmetrical haircut, person with more than 5% body fat, Dave Matthews song emanating from a bar, or Starbucks cup in plain view. These people enjoyed life where Tuesday was the new Thursday (which, of course, was the new Friday). Life was just glorious. Then, people above 14th Street caught wind of this supposed counterculture and social scene and wanted in -- because it's always cool to be what the masses are not. Duh.
There were so many opinions, thoughts, and commentaries about the damn-the-man hipsters and hipster wannabes (whatever that means). You could find articles about it in every New York-centric publication: TimeOut New York, New York Magazine, even the New Yorker. Everyone was curious - whether intrigued by or eschewing these hipsters - and wanted to know more about this culture and its requirements. But at the epicenter of Hipsterdom, in the Lower East Side, there was only silence.
You see, the first rule of being a hipster is to not talk about being a hipster. You can't actually acknowledge that you are a hipster, that you have made a concerted effort -- a choice -- to wear the clothes that you wear, to listen to the music that's stored on your iPod, to read the books on your walk-up studio apartment's coffee table (never a doorman building -- that's so bourgeois, so gauche), or to possess and believe in the opinions that you spout to your friends around a table at a fair trade coffee shop. That's soo not cool. You were born with those wayfarers on your eyes. You didn't buy into a love of Bloc Party, it's just who you are. Those skinny jeans? They've been snugly wrapped around your legs since the day you entered into this world.
Now, it seems, or at least partially so, that scraggly is out, and clean cut is in. It started a while ago, when new sparkly and glamorous neighbors attracting high-end clientele moved in, like the Hotel on Rivington, the Thompson LES, The Eldridge, The Box, and Libation (and we're not even talking restaurants; ahem, The Stanton Social). The next level were the middle men like Spitzer's Corner, known for its dozens of beers on tap. And now, The Doghouse Saloon. Come to think of it, the only sports bars on the LES I can think of are Blue Seats (a fancy pants sports bar) and Boss Tweed's.
So, to sum up: first it was the hipsterification. Now it's the (ostensibly slowly but surely) UES-ification. No longer is it commonplace to find a troubled, young protagonist walking through the streets of the Lower East Side, as is characteristic of many a Scorsese flick. Less time will be spent in the LES by hipster memory-makers like Nicky Digital and Last Night's Party. But I don't think it's going to be as bad as it sounds. The beloved Max Fish et al. will still be there, and hipsters aplenty will graciously and loyally stand their ground, proudly swigging their PBRs and making fun of the Tod's-footed creatures running amok outside, waiting in line (the horror) to gain entrance to the recently-opened posh bar next door.
So shall we just start calling it the Lupper East Side from now on? Nah, you can still find me on my Ludlow Street/LES bar crawl anytime.
Be happy and Carpe Diem!
No comments:
Post a Comment