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.