And Finally, A Bit of Self-Promotion

Hey blog followers and other readers who haven't declared their allegiance! Just because the Bushwick Rooftop Festival is over doesn't mean you have to stop checking in with me. As it happens, I have a blog of my own and I'm on the Twitter. So come say hello and let me get some of that sweet Blogspot ad money. God knows I'm barely getting by selling fish heads.

Drink Hard Liquor Then Fall Over

We did it! Two days of music, booze, and heatstroke went off mostly without a hitch! Plus someone stole and crashed a delivery truck. Whoever you are, that’s some Neal Cassady shit right there, so good job. Our dreams may have been smaller than Biggie’s but the feeling of accomplishment should be just as B.I.G.

There was fire dancing, there were crowds in the triple digits, there was so much music it was easy to get spoiled and just decide you were going to skip a band to catch up with friends or flirt or just stare at the skyline. I moved to Bushwick two years ago this month and however much time I may have spent at Goodbye Blue Monday or the Market Hotel or the basement of the Northeast Kingdom, this weekend was the first one that I really felt like a part of whatever scene it is that exists when we talk about the scene in Bushwick. And I didn’t even need to play an instrument or show any discernible talent!

At some point Sunday night, I decided to take advantage of living up the block from 210 Cook and go use the bathroom at my apartment. As I walked down the street, I was enveloped by noise and saw people on every corner, talking, laughing, what have you. In what I like to jokingly refer to as a post-industrial hell, was the summer truly starting. To make it all the more exciting, I knew I’d been spending my time at the best damn Memorial Day party in the city.

It was all thanks to you guys of course. If no one had shown up to this it would have been a real bummer. Not to mention weird. I mean, come on, free shows two days in a row, outdoors on Memorial Day. Hell, if no one showed I may have suspected I’d woken up in some 28 Days Later horror world. More so than you guys, our lovely attendees, thank you to the folks gracious enough to host us. You put up with a lot and considering I haven’t heard from Bird Dog since the weekend ended, you may have killed him after all was said and done. I would totally understand that since the loud, raucous parties without broken glass in the stairwells that you agreed to host became loud, raucous parties with broken glass in the stairwells.



Speaking of the broken glass in the stairwells: come on guys, we can do better. I helped Bird Dog clean up 75 Stewart on Sunday afternoon and walking up there was like something out of 28 Days Later. Damn it, I need to watch more movies. While bottles everywhere is to be unfortunately expected, what is with you morons that just had to piss and break bottles in the stairwells? Selfish hedonism is great and everything, but you can’t expect there to be more parties if you burn the place down every time. The same thing goes for the genius that threw the first bottle off the roof Sunday night. Whoever you are, you’re probably the kind of asshole that groused about the cops showing up. Maybe they did because they were waiting for some brainless dolt like you to give them an excuse to clear the roof. You want to break bottles? First, go back to being thirteen. Second, go find your own roof.

I could have done better too though, so it’s not like I’m going to sit here and lecture you guys without critiquing myself. My buddy Tim, a real journalist, mentioned that the blog could have contained some information about, y’know, the bands playing. I’d roll out excuses, but no, this could have been better. I could have stayed sober enough to recap the musical performances. I could have manned up and kissed you that night. I could have spelled “Haiti” correctly when making a mean joke at its expense. Well, there’s always next time.

Let’s end on a high note. If there’s one thing I’ll take away from this weekend, it’s the experience of driving around in Bird Dog’s mini-van to go a restaurant he used to work at so we could get ice. The seats were ripped out to accommodate empty kegs that rolled around making their own metallic, clanking music, and it bothered Bird Dog to the point where he asked me to climb back and re-arrange them so as to stop the noise. So there I was standing up in the back of a car fiddling with kegs while Bird Dog zoomed down Flushing Avenue. It was dangerous, moronic, and definitely illegal, which are three ingredients you need for any good weekend.

I Surrender! I Surrender!

I guess I can't lead off this blog post with "Oh my god you guys" because I can't repeat myself like that in good conscience. Still, despite my usual ability to spin a story out of anything, I'm completely at a loss for words. People of Brooklyn, you know how to fucking party. I'd say revel in it, but if you're anything like me (sore and your body crying out for alcohol) reveling is the last thing on your mind. This recap going up on Tuesday as opposed to Monday, for instance, is a direct result of my having an after-party on my roof and being up drinking until SUNRISE.

Here's a stat: Bird Dog bought twenty thirty-six packs of premium Budweiser beer and we ran out of them well before the party was over. You animals drank seven hundred and twenty beers and then demanded more! One of you was so drunk and spoiled that you thought you could claim to have been Saturday night's bartender and come back to the trough and steal the beer that belonged to my friends and me. Listen up you fucking waif: being young and pretty doesn't last forever, so don't get used to trying to pull that shit. Furthermore, don't get angry when you get called out, that's just embarrassing.

Sorry, didn't mean to get angry. Sunday night was great even if the cops came and even if you all eventually disregarded the whole thing about not throwing bottles off the roof. It probably makes me a shitty official festival blogger but I can't pick a standout band because the music was incidental to me running around with my shirt off and trying to figure out how many beers I could fit in my body in one weekend. How were Darlings? I wanted to see them but by the time they were on I was, well, this is where I was at:

I don't know about the love Sunday night either. I definitely saw some of you getting close to each other Saturday. All I saw Sunday was a drunken couple having one of those cringe-worthy arguments that happen in public sometimes, what with the grabbing and the crying and the carrying on like no one else is around. I'm sure they're nice people otherwise.

Aside from the fact that it brought the wrath of New York's finest, kudos to the person or persons who brought fireworks with them. Troy Patterson might think otherwise, but Sunday night, there was something about those magnificent whistles and pops that made the atmosphere that much anarchic and celebratory.

I don't know, I think this post was kind of downer. I didn't mean for it to be, I'm just sad that it's all over. BUT! Stay tuned for another post or two about what did it all mean and what does the future hold.

Again! Again!

Oh my god you guys. Man. Anyone else fall asleep with their shoes on? Was it just me? Because I definitely did that. I was supposed to go for a nice day of no rain and free music and got just what I was asking for. So hooray for that. I was there for almost all of it, from the calm, beach-like atmosphere when the sun was out to Ava Luna's darkness destroying set to the Trader Joe's late-shift kids showing up to that moment where I knew I had too much of everything and was just wandering around the roof grinning.

1000 internets to all the wonderful bands that played last night, hopefully you got to catch all of them and weren't just spending all your time on the line for the bathroom. One of my roommates said that toilet line must be what it's like to live in Hati, and at the risk of stirring up the Brooklyn Vegan hornet's nest again, I'm going to wholeheartedly agree with that. So when you see Bird Dog, thank him for letting you experience a piece of life in the Third World.

Hey did anyone find a camo shoulder bag? It had my notebook in it, I'm kind of bummed it's gone. Also because that means I need to buy a new one I guess? Uggggggggggh. I blame the introduction of Turbo Shandy to my drinking diet and the fact that at some point I was actually drinking coffee brandy straight out of the bottle.

I argued with someone as to whether or not Day One of the festival delivered on all the promises of the blog and then offered to make out with her just to make sure it did. Because bloggers = sexy. Regardless of my misadventures, I saw you all there, including you sketchy people who didn't want to be friendly, and you were all poor and beautiful and some of you were actually making out with each other. Way to go.


Did anyone have a moment with a guy or a girl thought you inextricably screwed up with him or her? Was there anything off about the night and you wish you had a chance to do it again? Well good news, there's a whole second day of music and sun and booze! It's like Bonnaroo in your backyard!

Tonight's outlandish promise: your intrepid correspondent actually manages to get his shoes off and fall asleep in his bed.

A Final Word

C'mere a minute, I have to speak to you.

NUMBER 1: WHAT ELSE ARE YOU GONNA DO?

I’m not gonna lie to you folks, I’ve about exhausted my repertoire of persuasive rhetoric in convincing you to come the Bushwick Rooftop Festival. I’ve appealed to your laziness and gluttony and your insecurity. I’ve mocked your poverty and tugged at your heartstrings. At this point, if you don’t want to come to the Bushwick Rooftop Festival, I don’t know what else there is to say.

Except for this: what else are you gonna do?

I know, it’s Memorial Day weekend and you’ve been invited to a million different things. Probably barbecues for the most part. Maybe even a barbecue hosted by the rich family of that girl you’re shtupping and you need to make a good impression. Well the Bushwick Rooftop Festival is a barbecue too. Really, we’re gonna have burgers. We’ll also have live music, lots of live music, plenty to go around. So bring the rich girl’s family, I’ll distract the father with a long pointless story about one of my many romantic failures and you the girlie can get drunk.

All I’m saying is that you know that no matter what you’re going to be doing this weekend, nothing will come close in quality to 24 hours of music on two enormous roofs in the heart of New York’s most vibrant art scene. BAM! I can write like a real promoter, I was just fucking with y’all all along.

On a personal note, I’d like to thank Bird Dog for giving me the opportunity to say whatever the hell I wanted and call it promotion. I want to thank you kids for reading (you DID read all these, didn’t you?) and coming along on this magical journey. The blog isn’t totally dead yet, I’m sure we’ll have a postgame wrap-up at the end of the weekend with pictures and other things, but until then, it’s been a blast. Find me during the festival and let’s chat.

The author, in his natural habitat

WE ARE AGAINST IT WITH YOU

I know that this is the second LCD Soundsystem video I've used to introduce a post, but James Murphy is the King Of Brooklyn and he just, speaks to me man. Ya dig?

NUMBER 2: IT'S REAL

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the Bushwick Rooftop Festival occurs the same weekend that Sex and the City 2 opens. Bird Dog will never admit to it, but the completely antithetical nature of the two events give the kind of stunning contrast to your potential weekends that can only come from careful planning.


Go on, gaze in horror at the Photoshop-smooth face of Sarah Jessica-Parker. Do so and know that this movie is not for us. I know people want a little escapism every now and again, but think critically for once in your miserable life. This is a movie about four incredibly rich women completely unaffected by the worst financial downturn in a generation who have so many problems being rich and bored that they get away from it all in Abu Dhabi. Abu Dhabi is located in the United Arab Emirates, which is famously home to Dubai, a place whose wealth vanished into the sands it was built on when we realized the entire fucking world was overleveraged.

In short: four cartoon characters with no connection to the real world visit a cartoon fantasyland that represents everything that was wrong with the world in the days of the real estate bubble. Perfect fit.



But oh that escapism. I’d ask what you have to escape from but I’ve already gone over the fact that you’re poor and the only thing you can afford to do is attend the Bushwick Rooftop Festival. But really, I think air conditioned movie escapism isn’t even necessary in New York City. Why escape into some movie studio’s fairytale version of New York when you can escape into the real New York, a place with endless options and adventures in every bar, if not on every corner? Why escape into something that’s not only an obvious cash grab but is apparently grossly offensive to anyone who can record a reading on an EEG? Sex and the City 2 is plastic consumption porn for desperate souls living someplace where a movie is the only option.

The Bushwick Rooftop Festival, on the other hand, is alive! It’s unpredictable and ramshackle, which is just beautiful. Shit, Bird Dog hasn’t even found enough people to bartend yet (which by the way, if you’d like to drink for free, you should volunteer). Yeah maybe we’re hipster scum, but we’re just a couple days away from turning a lot of hard work into an explosion of passion and energy. I’ll escape into that any day.

If You Feel Compelled Towards Me, That's Just Gravity

VERSUS

The current thinking likewise requires women to divest themselves of all their antiquated notions, and pants, and thereby “free” themselves to couple according to “their own wishes.” By this reckoning, it is the duty of every enlightened female to put across in order to show how enlightened she is. She won’t submit or succumb, perhaps she will even aggressively pursue. And because banging a lot of guys is a demonstration of enlightenment, the traditional blandishments are no longer required in order to get girls into bed. Also de rigueur for girls is a lot of noise about the condition of their own libido, which evidently makes them not unladylike or blabby, but “equal.” Any woman with the slightest bit of restraint is going to be yelled at for being a dowdy, outmoded essentialist. An enemy of the state, practically. And meanwhile, no romance for anybody. (via The Awl)

NUMBER 3: EVERYONE GETS LAID

It was bound to happen, no? When you spend over a week trying to convince a group of people why they should attend the event you’re throwing, eventually you’re going to end up aiming for the groin. I don’t think that’s a problem though. Even paragons of lameness Blink-182 recognized that one of the primal motivators that sends young people to see live music is the chance that they can meet that special someone, even if she’s only around for a couple days or he ends up being a total psychopath.

It won't be like this. I promise.

When I say, “Everyone gets laid” what I’m really saying is that you have the chance to do so. But the line wouldn’t have been as funny if Al Czervik had included the possibility of failure.



Don’t worry about the failure. I know, some of us you are too awkward, too unfashionable, too skittish to pick a guy or girl up at a party. Meeting people and convincing them that you’re a person worth hanging out with is hard enough. Meeting a person and convincing her that letting you stick your tongue down her throat is a good idea can be even harder. Especially when you’re prone to blurting out things like “Spines can be sexy!”

It won't be like this either. Way too cute.

Of course, there’s going to be alcohol. Alcohol always helps. There will also be music. Glorious, sometimes sensual music. You’ll be drunk and you’ll be dancing when you see someone that’s on the same wavelength as you. Talk to him! Ask that girl if you can buy her an exceptionally cheap beer, maybe she’s out of money! It’s a big roof, wander until you fall in with a group of strangers and start talking with them. At some point it’s just going to be you and one other girl. Then a break in the conversation, a shy smile or a maybe a flash of recognition at what you both want. Go with it.

Maybe like this. You could do worse.

I also can’t, in good conscience, make the promise that everyone gets off, because like the quote above argues, the sexual revolution has probably been way better for dudes than for chicks. Maybe we can start this weekend on making it more equal. We must be more excellent to each other. I can’t speak for ladies because I am not one, but guys, maybe we can not be complete assholes? Don't do something dumb like letting her hear you call her a slut the next day when you talk to your boys. In fact, it's 2010, guys: stop calling girls sluts. For starters, your peers judge you on how often you can GET IT WET with as many partners as possible, so why should women have to bear the brunt of your scorn just because they want to fuck guys other than you? Also, in attempt to make things equal, some genius came up with the term “manwhore”, which, in the spirit of every 21st century portmanteau, is fucking retarded and meaningless. Do you understand your regressive views on open and equal sexuality are killing the English language? Have some fucking respect, if not for your partner then for us poor slobs who like decent goddamn prose.

This dude knows what I'm talking about.

Still, the promise is there. If the promise of ecstasy is there, there’s also the promise of heartbreak, believe me I understand that.

I am CONSTANTLY on this tip.

There’s also the promise though, of lying in bed next to each other, where you feel like you can live for days. That’s a Rescue Bird line and if they play “Melt” I swear I’ll start weeping like a child.

If you see me wandering around and singing this song to myself, don't worry, I'm just drunk/on drugs.