Puerto Rican houses on Central Ave are furiously decorated. Shinning snowmen, thousands of blinking Christmas lights conveniently purchased in a nearby Family Dollar store, Christmas carols playing from a shitty speaker ran by a tiny engine made in China, despite and because of it all. Jingle bells, jingle fucking bells, neighbor! Dear peoples of the Republic of China, let me, on behalf of the peoples of the Republic of Bushwick, thank you for this holiday experience a la acid.
Huge bright squirrel sitting next to a dumb face Santa has a determined look in its eyes, as if it was trying to make sure, by its intensive presence, that this year’s holiday will not cut Bushwick short. Because it could happen easily, I am realizing together with all my Bushwick neighbors and their decoration. Bushwick is not exactly in the center of attention, it is dangerous at times and ugly always. “This not a good part”, tells me a Bangladeshi cab driver when dropping me off in front of my house. “It’s better than you think”, I oppose.
We are poor, some of us proudly, others shamefully. Cocktail of December gloominess, delis, tacky hair cutters and experimental art, which is making kids who smoke too much weed laugh hard. I slip on the first Bushwick snow when walking to or from the bar. I’m listening to the new Kanye West album, a copy of which I have provided myself with, because I was told he’s the shit, and there is nothing innovative about rock anymore. I’m generously ambivalent about him. Although, he sounds kinda more sophisticated than the last time I checked, and Blame Game moves me. Too much innovativeness can be bewildering and to the contrary, the lack of it can be soothing, especially in the times of Venus in Scorpio. I guess, I will always be an indie rock chick.
The people who will conclude it’s a good idea to talk to me in a bar, will receive an unsolicited advice not to drink straight from a PBR can, because they might, you know, die.