Boobie Trap, 308 Bleecker Street, Brooklyn.
When you live in an apartment that was once rapidly and haphazardly renovated but is still going for twice the rent than it’s actually worth, you really need a place in neighboring society where you can spend an audacious $4 on a PBR tallboy, play Connect 4, and talk about everything that was wrong with your exes.
For the world right off the Myrtle-Wycoff station, that place is apparently the Boobie Trap; the self-proclaimed, entirely deserving neon-and-Kentucky-Gentlemen-soaked titular head of Bushwick’s bars.
Every bit of the interior is saturated in pureed Quentin Tarantino. Brewski pours out of mannequin thighs. The bar countertop is littered with jars of lighters, sea salt toffy, and ripped out pages from coloring books; all for the taking. Pink and purple cums on the furniture. Boxes of board games pile higher than my student debt. There’s a donation-based phone charging station. The bathroom’s got a doorbell and inside; a chandelier retrofitted with barbie dolls, a jar with hairbands in case you gotta puke, and some whorrible doll who looks down at you from the wall while you take a shit. The smell of underpriced barbecue and pre-vomited PBR and whiskey shots for $6 gently floods your nostrils until you remember that you’re still becoming an adult one day, at which point, you pretend the smell doesn’t exist anymore because you’re an adult goddamn it and you have CLASS. A fantastical neon sign proclaiming ‘Fuck Off’ shreds any bit of misogynistic undertones you were probably thinking; that this is a lesbian bar, this is a dive bar with women clad in leopard print pantyhose just looking to fuck, this is where you go to bump a hollywood line because that’s what they’re doing off the Morgan stop. It seems to be literally quite the opposite; it’s devilishly self-aware and meant to appease to the try-hard hipsters under the age of 26 who are still convinced there’s some shred of ‘cool’ left in Bushwick. More than that, it’s most definitely a bartender’s bar; fully-equipped with every quirky sentiment and necessity bar owner Kristen North believes is needed to handle a bar-back who’d just spent six hours fending off the gaggles of yupsters that frequent Berry Park with their platinum cards and frosted tips.
Luckily for me, I don’t bar-back at Berry Park, nor do I have a platinum card.
Lucky for me that such an establishment opened up three minutes away from my apartment. Nowadays, my roommate and I saunter down Irving, pass under the M Train Elevated rail, and finish our American Spirits right outside of the bar, where a fenced off patch of blue-spray-painted dirt serves as the home for seven plastic flamingos.
Then it’s games of Connect 4, cans of PBR that are ALWAYS cold, contemplation over whether or not it’d be worth it to play Rock’Em Sock’Em Robots, debating whether or not we ought to go somewhere else, realize that there isn’t anywhere else to go, settle in deeper into our seats, maybe take a couple pisses, most likely another smoke, then salute to the death of Brooklyn’s Hipster movement – death by replication – and then cheers to the sparkled nostalgia particular establishments such as Boobie Trap will continue to bring us in the back of our tenderly over-zealously entitled minds, where we’ll always remember the times we truly believed we were cooler than our friends back at home, and that because we listened to Cults on the down-low every day when we were tripping back hair of the dog down our throats to fight off our hangovers from Berry Park when Berry Park was the Berry Park, we felt that we were actual New Yorkers.
It’s astonishing how solidifying delusion requires much of our literal attention. And money. Thankfully for Boobie Trap, we’re allowed to live in delusion a little bit cheaper than we usually do.