While there are many correlations between Williamsburg and Bushwick, our similarities are not strong enough to make attending a party past the Grand stop palatable or in any way comfortable. Something happens to people when they move to Williamsburg, especially if they abandoned Bushwick for it. Whether it’s the men missing a dick or the women missing a brain, there seems to be this general pod person vibe “over there.”
Although The Burning Bush never likes to subject itself to an event or fete that takes place in the Wburg milieu, we were willing to sacrifice our remaining sanity to conduct an experiment proving that Bushwickians and Williamsburgians cannot successfully commingle. And so, we took it upon ourselves to attend a dinner party that rivaled Gossip Girl-era Upper East Side in terms of stodginess (without the excitement of a sexual or drug-related interlude).
The host of the party, an out-of-work writer with a trust fund named Sorely McBore, was kind enough to extend an invitation to us after our one-time source of publicity caught his eye while he was trolling the internet for potential source material for his screenplay one day and figured he might as well see how the other Bushwick half lives. Thus, Bensonia and I were allowed entry into one of those alternate universes known as a condo on the waterfront (I won’t say which, suffice it to say that the building name rhymes with “sledge”). As we stuffed our face with air and tried to make do with the Crown Ambassador Reserve beer that was flowing parsimoniously throughout the giant, West Elm-furnished room, it became very clear that we were a long way from home–in spite of said home being mere subway stops away.
Very little was said throughout the evening, unless Bensonia felt the need to break the silence with a blood-curdling tale about Florida. Amid soft whispers of people talking about what they did for a living or the latest VICE article that moved them to tears, I finally had to scream, “Take me back to Bushwick!” It was as though I was possessed by a combination of Maria Hernandez and Geri Halliwell (who also once screamed something similar). Everyone at the party glossed over my cry for help, prompting Bensonia to escort me out and take me to the closest thing Williamsburg has to Bushwick, Duff’s. We then proceeded to spend the entire night trying to cleanse ourselves of the harrowing experience by embarking on a safari of dive bars (amounting to all of two).
Written by Genna Rivieccio