Yes, show us the photo.  We’ve earned it.
Show us all the dead insurgents.
Show us the dead U.S. soldiers.
Show us the thousands of civilian casualties.
Show us the collateral damage.  Show us the widows, widowers, orphans, and parents of the dead.
Show us the cost of two bullets in a head.
Show us the whole War.  We’ve earned it.

Here it is. A New York City neighborhood amidst its own transformation from dilapidated industrial hub to art center and now a construction site where its future is being wrought from developers and corporations. As graffiti mecca, 5Pointz, faces a struggle to stay alive, the rest of NYC begins to explore what this little neighborhood is capable of.

Although the new nitelife scene has a little ways to go, there are many establishments and galleries that have laid out the seeds for something proper. A class clash is inevitable due to young professionals moving in toward the river with their families, immigrants, and artists — the perfect storm for a thriving scene unlike any in New York.

These pictures are a summary of a changing neighborhood.

I live, work, and commute in the NYC metro area, and therefore spend many hours of my week reading in transit, rather than allow my eyes to wander where they shouldn’t. Additionally, my field of work requires me to carry my laptop around, so my tolerance for lugging excess things, like hardcovers, is extremely low. Nonetheless, as a radio producer, and sometime cultural commentator, it behooves me to keep up with my boss’s literary tastes. From time to time I find myself with the unfortunate task of double-fisting a MacBook, circa 2008, a pair of clunky production headphones, (the kind that keep your buzzy ear-nubs from imposing on my first listen of what you will be listening to in three months), and the latest from the New Yorker’s “Briefly Noted” list.

This season, I got slammed, literally, (no pun intended) with Jonathan Franzen’s 500+ page epic novel, Freedom. Let me tell you, I feel all but bound (uh-oh, another pun) by even the thought of having to commute with this thing. I’ve only just made a dent in it, and it’s not bad, although I really wish Mr. Franzen would be more considerate of his core audience’s fore-arms and fingers next time he goes and writes an epic novel.

Those of us snooty enough to be bothered with reading a pre-paperback Franzen book are also not likely to own those digi-book thingys people are carrying around these days. This is the first time I ever considered it might be a good idea to own one, but then I thought maybe Franzen was in co-hoots with the likes of Nook or Audible, or any of those other make-reading-fun-and-hip-for-gen-y type companies. To which I say, buzz-off! After all, what’s the point of reading the new Franzen if you’re not carrying it around in public and showing other people how bad-ass you are for: A. still buying real books; B. reading them; C. buying and reading books with 500+ pages; D. buying and reading 500+ page books by Jonathan Franzen, bitches! That’s right, you don’t have to ask me what I’m reading because it’s huge, and in you’re face!

When I’m between novels, I leave the house with just a magazine that can easily be disposed of between stations, or at a crosswalk. I’ve considered leaving Freedom behind and just reading the glossies, but I’m the kind of reader that gets so involved that I need to have the characters with me at all times. Not to mention, if the New Yorker is just too wordy this week, and New York just too fluffy, I may have to wait empty handed, which is a very common situation when you rely on the ever- unreliable NYC/NJ public transit systems. Heaven forbid I’m without a periodical or bound piece of fiction, too far from a recently stocked Village Voice box, and have to stare at the creepy ad for the latest vampire TV series. (I swear, their eyes are always following me) Or worse, there’s a cute toddler on the train and I’m, ya know, in the part of the cycle that makes you cry when you see babies; or I accidentally make eye contact with a born-again begging leper; or I see the guy that sat next to me in third grade and has been commenting on all my Facebook photos. There are many, many reasons my eyes need not wander while I’m in transit, for the sake of myself, and those around me. Therefore being intellectually committed to a literary work that weighs more than my MacBook is simply not an option.

This leaves me in a bind (eh-hem – the puns), for tomorrow’s commute. I have a perfectly good current issue of the New Yorker waiting to be flipped through and tossed out someplace between Hoboken, Essex County, Manhattan, and Brooklyn, (I have work, then a date, then a show). For practical purposes, I will choose the magazine over the Monmouth literary masterpiece. But there’s an excellent chance I’ll be distracted by imagining what becomes of the Berglund’s in Franzen’s Freedom, while also being hustled on the Q train and crying over an adorable two- year-old, and giving the wrong phone number to Josh from Mrs. B’s class, as he tells me how different I look. Mr. Franzen, can we please keep it carry-able next time?

By Carlos Detres

I read an article over a year ago in Time Out New York by Christian Lorentzen called, “Why the Hipster Must Die” .

It’s a passionate and contemptuous piece written by a talented writer who misunderstands, as most people do, the character of subculture. What he’s most upset it about is that cool now belongs to a less deserving group of people.

Describing the hipster, Lorentzen writes:

“Yes, the assassins of cool still walk our streets: Any night of the week finds the East Village, the Lower East Side and Williamsburg teeming with youth—a pageant of the bohemian undead. These hipster zombies—now more likely to be brokers or lawyers than art-school dropouts—are the idols of the style pages, the darlings of viral marketers and the marks of predatory real-estate agents. And they must be buried for cool to be reborn.”

For a writer to survey, analyze, and demonize an entire population and announce a takeback of “cool” is pretty stunning. Writers aren’t purveyors of cool. I’m not and neither is he but for every generation there is always a smartass or two who, during the height of a cultural epoch, turns the pistol of his pen to a scapegoat and pulls the trigger. The problem is not with them.

In the 1960s an entire generation revolted against its elders values, including segregation, the Vietnam War, and women’s and gay rights. In the 1970s there was an infamous incident in which a disc jockey in Chicago openly destroyed disco records in Comiskey Park, setting off a riot of rock fans in fear of the demise of their favorite music. In the 1980s, it was the war on drugs — the excuse made to criminalize lifestyle under the guise of cocaine and civility. The 1990s surge of raves and burgeoning dance club scene resulted in the deafening decision by Rudolph Giuliani to enforce the antiquated Cabaret Law that was once reserved for illegal cabarets. Today it’s the multi-media sources of the blogosphere, YouTube, print, and television against itself. Just do a search for “hipster” and you’ll see sites dedicated to the expression of hatred toward the hipster.

I’m sure he meant well when he declared a “civil war” on hipsters but it only further promulgates the subject he so loathes. The title of the article doesn’t lack the irony that Lorentzen abhors. His piece was included in an issue devoted to all things hipster in an effort by TONY to voice both sides of this supposed subcultural movement but what needs to be said is that there is no such thing as a hipster. It’s a myth.

I agree that there are identifiable people who are the “darlings of viral marketers”, reinforced by retailers such as American Apparel and Urban Outfitters. I agree that every girl wants to look like the sartorially gifted Karen O. but there is no pedantic chivalry like the Beats exhibited. There is no philosophical unity like what was shared between the Transcendentalist. There is no movement for complete and utter social change like the ’60s generation committed themselves to (amongst other things). Our modern time is all image and marketing and the media bathes in the conflagration.

What should be noted, what escapes so many is that there is still relevance even if it appears to have no meaning. People identify problems in society in the one that wears it the best. It has all been image and has been since the days of (god I hate this word) grunge. The simple title of “cool” belongs to those who wear, breathe, and identify their position individually, which can be anyone. If there was any modern cultural heroism it died with Dash Snow.

Our current station that many disdain is really something we have all contributed to. Our desire for debauchery, attire, money, fancy haircuts, and nice apartments have poured into the same pool. We just wear different clothes. If a subculture becomes more apparent it’s because it has something to say even if it’s some kind of convoluted nihilism or anti-corporate/closet-corporate movement. Unfortunately, this kind of rhetoric isn’t limited to hipsters. It continues to goths, hippies, hardcore kids, punks, and my own guilty scapegoat — suits. To quote an aphorism: “Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.”

It’s in retrospect that we look back at the old days with a different sort of eye, an older eye, a wiser eye — and most gut-wrenching — the eye of a nostalgic heart because it’s the ones we despise that will cause us to remember the best and worst parts of us. When we look in the mirror we’ll find that the scapegoat was ourselves.

• Can’t smoke anywhere near Queensborough Plaza but you can yell and threaten a police officer while he’s giving a ticket. Miguel and I were finishing a cigarette and a cop walked over and asked for our IDs. While writing our tickets, a man became unruly at the ticket counter and yelled and threatened the cop. The cop responded by being louder than him and waving his baton. What happened next? Nothing except that Miguel and I now have to pay 50 bucks for some bs.
• Can’t park anywhere at night. Marcus parked in the Lower East Side in a section that was accompanied by a very confusing no parking sign. Apparently, “no standing” means no parking and now that sounds obvious to anyone, however the times that were designated were not. There was a difference on the sign between “no parking” and “no standing” depending on what time you “stood” or “parked” the car. What happened? Marcus got a friendly $150.00 ticket. Nice!
• Can’t stand directly outside of a bar. What happened? Miguel, Marcus and I left the gallery bar and while deciding our next destination, a bouncer informed us that we couldn’t stand “there”. We were at least 15 feet from the door but no matter – we had to move.
• Can’t dance in New York. Why? While it is not strictly enforced, people are not legally allowed to dance in a bar unless the establishment has a cabaret license. We can thank Giuliani for being the town asshole and enforcing an antiquated law. Side note: Giuliani is a fascist and don’t let anyone tell you different. Rememeber that we live in America and not Mussolini’s Italy.
• Can’t smoke anywhere. Now I understand this, believe me I do but… C’mon now… Seriously? Nowhere??? Shouldn’t there be some kind of 70/30 law like the one enforced in Orlando? Orlando isn’t a haven either. Everything closes at 2AM.
• The city that never sleeps? What a lie! Everything is done for by 4AM… That means EVERYTHING. And because a liquor license isn’t granted for anything open after 4AM that means that you can’t go anywhere but home. City that never sleeps??? Give me a break. Lie, lie, lie.
• Too many guys and you won’t get into Lit. Lit is seriously one of my favorite bars – period. Drinks are reasonable. The music is great and after a certain time, one may partake in an unmentionable favorite activity downstairs in their basement. I really love this place but if you try to go in with too many guys (more than one) then good luck. You ain’t gettin’ in. So here’s what happened: Last weekend, my buddy and I after a good night of partying decided to go to Lit at 3 in the morning. The both of us are standing in line trying to seem as if we don’t know each other but when it’s time to go in, the bouncer looks at us and says, “Sorry, too many guys. Can’t let you in.” Lit is a place that I spend good money in all of the time and because of this bouncer, I couldn’t go in and enjoy the rest of my evening with cool drinks and good tunes. I love that place so much that I’ll still throw my support but I have to mention it here because it’s not just Lit – it’s everywhere. Have a cock? Good luck.

I love New York just like every one else but if you want to go to a city that revels in freedom, go to New Orleans. Somehow these people have been successful in maintaining a healthy night life without all of these damn rules. Not one of these rules applies there. If you leave a bar at 5AM the same bar will be open when you wake up at 10AM.

Honorable mention – If you’re interested in doing your own party - good luck. New York has a law against that too. Ask the hundreds of hard working promoters who have had to fight this city to do one freakin’ venue.