Letters from your neighbors and fellow newyorkers.
Send your own 'Dear Williamsburg' letters here
, and they will be posted.
Why did you break my car window a few weeks ago when I parked in your neighborhood? It was on the sidewalk side of the car, so it was definitely a malicious act against my 1990 Toyota Corolla and not an accidental side swipe! I’ve parked all over the city for almost two decades and you were the first to break my car mirror (although someone did smash a window in Park Slope once, wtf). Feel free to send me $250 for the repair if you feel a lil guilty about it.
Regards, The Gay Recluse
If you think your cool and live in Williamsburg you probably aren’t. Many people think tight pants are lame.
I think anyone who claims they are from anywhere is lame, and that includes gang members. Williamsburg is nothing but a place to live with shops. Lame shops.
I generally think NYC is lame when people try to make it cool. In fact NYC is kind of dirty and smells, but has a lot of nice things.
Maybe people should spend less time drinking in the streets and screaming OBAMA, and more time acting like responsible voters. Not lame asses that cause problems. Maybe then Williamsburg won’t look so trashy. Not that it is, but all the yuppies who say they are hipsters but are really yuppies make it trashy.
Most real hipsters can’t afford tight pants by the way.
“Being cynical is FUN, and it gets you pussy, but that’s not the same thing as it being an actionable worldview that makes you smart and helps the world get fixed…As far as the actual, important, REAL issues are concerned, your cynisism is as useless as a hippie’s blonde dreads - and from now on, it is obsolete. Obama has proven you gay.” (via)
I am fed up with your righteousness and smug demeanor. You contribute nothing to the neighborhood and piss off everyone around you except your own. The only thing you’re good for is a first fare in my yellow cab at 4:30 in the morning after leaving my garage. Your drunken ass will somehow navigate me through the slums of Bushwick (NOT EAST WILLIAMSBURG) to the warehouse you set up shop in. I then speed back to Manhattan underneath the J train on Broadway and watch the lingering zombies leaning on the elevated subway supports, plastered on their iPhones, having no idea where they are. Thanks for the 20 bucks, you yuppie fuck. Now go back to Ohio.
Even the NYTimes is adding their two cents.
Fred Irons, 74, a Korean War veteran, spends much of his days sitting on a step in the ground-floor hallway of his building on Bedford Avenue with Jerry Treck, 86, who lives around the corner. The two men were born and raised in Williamsburg, and said they missed the tightly knit community that once defined the place. “I just don’t like it,” Mr. Irons said. “People don’t walk on the right. They’re distracted, there’s a total disregard for protocol. They have no regard for nobody else.”
I think its great people write you such pleasant malfeance (my ego says that’s the wrong word but your tacky site desires me to leave it in order to stump the self-proclaimed erudite).
Is it possible another area of New York achieved independence from the entire world. Does “w’burg” (all insult included between Dierde’s four marks on a page) represent an oasis of the tragically hip, a safe haven for hipster dreams, a breeding ground for liberal acquiescence.
Does it matter to me the that innocence of this site is longing for attention, it is a pink see-through dress with pink pumps and a t-shirt on the rainiest day of the year. It is a contradiction.
It achieves the same as it put forths - a complaint of a complaint.
dear w’burg, you’re okay. so what if you have a chip on your shoulder the width of the east river. i don’t mind. it’s cute. esp when you wear it with neon
As I was crossing the street on Bedford and n.6 last week, you sped by me on your bicycle after narrowly missing me and others, angrily yelling at me, “don’t just stand there! move! I’m the one in control here! I’ll move around you! Fucking asshole fuck you!” and you continued to speed down the street threatening me that you’ll bash my head in. I was admittedly, at a loss for words. As you kept pedaling your fancy bike, looking back at with me such vitriol, I tried to will you back, yearning for you to turn around and continue your physical threats at a closer distance, to bring your 150 pound malnourished frame within reach of my 6”1 220 pound body, my hands fantasizing over the prospects, but you kept pedaling, finally disappearing from view. I can only hope that in your fit of rage brought upon yourself from lack of nutrition and work, a car door opened unexpectedly in your path, introducing you to the ground with such force that you awakened after wards with a new outlook on life, one that included ending your role playing and becoming more useful to your community.