In this place called 'New Jersey.'
When my driver told me where we were going, I was intrigued. Was it a new restaurant? Perhaps an old warehouse-turned-art venue? Maybe someone retrofitted that awful Rocco DiSpirito restaurant and made it not-so-demode?
It turns out that it is a whole state. A state.
I only stayed for 6-and-a-half minutes. I usually stay at functions for 15, but the crowd was unbearable. They were comprised mostly of this 'hipster' type. You know, the people who want to look like they never shower, do copious amounts of heroin and rummage through the bins at the Salv.. Slav.. Slavatinon Army? I don't know how to say those words. I just gagged a little.
Apparently they all live in this area of Brooklyn-
BRING ME A PELLEGRINO BEFORE I EXPEL MY FILET IN A VERY HORRIBLE WAY. AND IF IT IS NOT ICE COLD, YOU WILL BE HUSTLING PRINT SYNTHETICS AT CASUAL CORNER BY TOMORROW MORNING.
Sorry, the word 'Brooklyn' gives me nausea. But they all live in this area of Brooklyn called Williamsburg. Which sounds delightfully old-Americana. It reminds me of gin-and-tonics and early Ralph Lauren and Sperry topsiders. But it turns out it is some sort of breeding ground for these 'hipsters.' They prance around in their 'vintage' band shirts and ugly cheap sunglasses, talking about how they love horrible things like beer (What is that again? Isn't it like a wheat smoothie?) and American Apparel.
BRING ME A GIN AND TONIC. I AM SO NAUSEOUS I COULD FIRE ALL OF YOU RIGHT NOW FOR EXISTING.
So, basically, I think we should carpet-bomb Williamsburg. It would be simple, really. I'll ask Donatella if her jet could be retro-fitted with rocket launchers or something. She loves accessorizing - she'll probably have them gold-plated and put that horrible face on them. God, that woman and Greek key.
I must leave you, adoring public - my assistant-in-charge-of-gin just informed me that we are out of Tanqueray. It's going to be one of those days, I see.