I remember walking the streets of Bushwick with Moonchild, unmarred by the onslaught of youths living a carefree life via parental backing–and often wearing deliberately shitty looking clothes with some sort of 90s pop culture reference. We could roam the streets toward the Pine Box without a worry (that worry now generally being causing too much of a “ruckus” for denizens willing to pay 3,000 a month in rent). We could actually buy cigarettes at Brooklyn Natural before they were banned (though we hear they’re selling them again–for now). We could act like drunken assholes without judgement. In short, Bushwick was our dirty oyster for the taking.
Let’s be clear, this is not about hating the new era of Bushwick. The Bushwick where cocktails are twelve dollars and up, Wreck Room is closed, Lit Lounge exists within the McKibbin (oops, never mind–for now) and The Morgan is Tutu’s. New York is invariably a place of constant change, and one must accept that to survive. But The Burning Bush is about showing reverence for what Bushwick represented once upon a time, by making total fun of what it is now.
The Burning Bush