Drunken L-train jibberish

Williamsburg, Brooklyn is a funny place. You kind of want to hate it. Because of the armies of early-twenty-something shop assistant/students prancing around in the latest American Apparel leotard and shiny new Doc Marten's boots.

These people roll like they're the big shots. I think, by Facebook-liking the 'latest' cool band they automatically assume they are immortal rock gods. And thus try to live a life straight out of a Larry Clark film. This is a lifestyle choice fully endorsed by Vice magazine - which acts as their bible.

But if I was to ignore the annoying hipster kids, and actually pay attention to the place Williamsburg itself, it's actually alright.

Not that I'd ever admit it though. Those little dickheads got too far under my skin. And its my life-long ambition to avoid being 'cool', of course, even if I do wear horn-rimmed spectacles. In my defence, some people are actually shortsighted and need glasses to see - and I don't mean metaphorically like the aforementioned.

I guess Williamsburg just suffers from the type of cliche crowd it draws. Very much like Shoreditch, and now Hackney, in east London.

Anyway, I found myself in a nice little bar called The Richardson. The bartenders are covered in tatoos and look like they've come from the set of a rockabilly music video. They also serve about a hundred whiskeys. And most importantly, the place is rid of hipster kids strutting around drinking their ironic cans of PBR.

Anyone not so keen on the Old Blue Last, in London, might wanna drop by if ever in town. Alternatively, if this post has riled you then you'd be better off visiting Union Pool 'round the corner.

The subway train is approaching my station so this drunken rant is over. I've now got about three hours to sober up and get some sleep before I take a taxi to the airport.

Goodbye East Coast.