This Wednesday will be exactly 10 months since I moved to New York. I still clearly remember my early attempts at finding an apartment. Going from ghetto to ghetto, avoiding gun shots, rats the size of small cars, and strung out homeless women the size of football players, all while trying to find apartment in my budget. Though the apartments next to Biggie Smalls old house had large bedrooms, I didn’t feel I would survive long enough to sleep in one. Thankfully, two days before my south Williamsburg sublet was over I found a little kingdom right smack in the middle of hipsters paradise. If you’ve never been to Williamsburg, Brooklyn and aren’t quite sure what a hipster is, imagine the jeans of Panic at the Disco, the tattoos of Travis Barker, the shirts that are in your dad’s closet from the 70s, the glasses of Lady Gaga, and a not give a fuck, go with the flow attitude similar to Kurt Cobain. Though I haven’t got a sleeve of tattoos on my arm yet, my jeans do have a little less wiener room, my shirts have a little more funk, and I’ve been considering getting some Lady Gaga shades (That’s a huge lie, but for the sense of this blog, lets pretend that I’d be willing to wear glasses similar to her). With my lease being up at the end of August I have to start looking for another place to live. Though my current location is in the very heart of Williamsburg, I’ve out grown the bedroom walls that I can touch at the same time and the bathroom that even a Jack Russel Terrier would have trouble moving around in comfortably. So the question is where will I end up next?

Williamsburg is still the most probable answer since it’s the most gangster place in the world…even more gangster than Compton…Compton sucks cack. I think I would enjoy living in Manhattan, but it’s a very different lifestyle. The bars in DA BURG are hip and mellow, boasting $3 beer and free pizza. They’re filled with cut off jeans, unkempt hair, and the funkiest youth of New York. With Manhattan living comes an older, postgraduate educated, wallstreetesque, suits in bars type crowd. Not to be misconstrued I look damn good in a suit, but I tend to only wear them at Bar Mitzvahs and at Mel Gibson’s funeral (Hasn’t happened yet, but I’ll be prepared with a pressed suit for the celebration). Drinks in Manhattan start at $7 and if I even thought of wearing my favorite I Love Puppies shirt in Mid Town I’d stick out like Megan Fox’s thumb as a hand model (Google it). Though I would love living next to Central Park. If I could wake up, have a picnic and play frisbee everyday…O.M.G. I often go there and hang for hours on end, reading, writing, throwing rocks at ducks. It’s a paradise in the high rise jungle of Manhattan.

I know I can rule out Queens (Brooklyn’s gay sister), The Bronx (Stupidddd), and Staten Island (Really? Is that a joke?). So it’s either Brooklyn or Manhattan…either way I’ll rock out and steal my neighbors mail. Also my place is completely wrecked after my party a couple days ago…I guess the landlord will be keeping that security deposit. Like my hipster brothers would say, Ah fuck it.

House hunting,

Daniel Dickey