There are many who think that all traces of “old” Williamsburg have vanished. But there is, alas, still one alcoholically-oriented port in the storm: Turkey’s Nest on N. 12th and Bedford. Unless, of course, the bar’s owner duped you into believing that the sign outside the door while they were revamping the exterior was real.
The “joke” sign
While it’s all well and good to maintenance a sign–especially when you’re trying to keep up with the bouge quality of Williamsburg–it’s a horrible thing to trick loyal drunks into believing that their prized margarita-filled Styrofoam cups could become as much of a thing of the past as a Lena Dunham-free Greenpoint.
For the most part, “men” who celebrate St. Patrick’s Day are not even actually Irish. They are Williamsburgian by way of Murray Hill. They use St. Patrick’s Day as arbitrarily as Cinco de Mayo for their own drunken pleasure. And, like Halloween, as an excuse to capitalize on the drunkenness of other people with a vagina.
These “men” can’t even stomach their alcohol
The true “man” drinks on his own time, not at the urging of a so-called national holiday. He also doesn’t binge drink to impress anyone but his damn self. And, being that binge drinking is only impressive when you’re in a sorority, most “men” with a dick know this isn’t the way to a girl’s heart–luck o’ the Irish or not.
Just when you think the sanitization of Williamsburg couldn’t possibly be any more complete, news of the Turkey’s Nest (in addition to Rosemary’s) switching their signature drink format from Styrofoam to plastic comes along. Is it more environmentally conscious? Yes. Is it a sign of the increasing lack of genitalia in the neighborhood? Most assuredly.
How a Turkey’s Nest cup should look
One would have sooner expected that Turkey’s Nest would have shut down altogether before agreeing to switch to plastic instead of Styrofoam. It is, after all, their signature. And so, those “men” who consent to accept the decontaminating of what was once the irrefutable mainstay of no frills alcohol are, in turn, contaminating themselves.
It’s utterly pointless to get upset over the toppling of the dominoes known as Williamsburg bars at this juncture. It is especially dickless to mourn places like Spike Hill, where the genitalia-less “man” thrived on performing lackluster music.
But Trash Bar being ousted out of the neighborhood as a result of quadrupling rents is something every “man” should be at least somewhat mournful of, as he’s probably enjoyed his fair share of free tater tots there. It’s not about Trash Bar itself, but rather, what it represented: the only beacon of untouchable filth left in the neighborhood. It was the final source for finding a gritty “man” left in Williamsburg. And now it’s just another death in an ever-waning family of alcoholic ports in the storm.