Yesterday I made myself exhausterhausen bumbling around the Dumbo arts festival with my best school friend Beauty. I love Brooklyn; it reminds me so much of San Francisco, just the neighborhood feel, and all the self-conscious hipsters brown-bagging everywhere.
After being groped at a Polish bar playing Dire Straits and an incredible volume, we went to a birthday gathering at the three-week old Gutter in Williamsburg, a great bar with eight lanes of bowling pleasure. We couldn't get in on a lane, but it was a pretty chill scene, and pretensions were minimal for Williamsburg, from what I understand. Everyone seemed on the short side, and someone allowed me to eat two cupcakes.
This morning, I got an expensive Priority Mail package from my friend Michelle in San Francisco. Inside was this piece of cardboard:
This made me unspeakably sad. They had a party last night at my old apartment, and I would have much rather been there than at Gutter, having five-to-ten-minute conversations with people who I will probably never see again. I wrote a letter to my friend Neal, cried, and felt better.
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