New York, I love you, but you're bringing me down.

We made. We made it half way through this here trip around them country stuffs. Last week, we landed in New York, and I say landed because everyone seems very confused about us having a car, and also make humorous assumptions like how we'll just fly back from here, because, fuck, after you've been to NYC, where else is there to go?

I love this place because I lived here so long, and because I adore my friends, but honestly there's something that reflects the spirit of the city where all anyone asks me about is how weird and horrible the people must have been everywhere else and weren't we scared to be nowhere and etc. Leave New York, everyone. Just for a long weekend. There's a lot of stuff out there.

I could turn this into a disparaging commentary on the decline of my once favorite place on earth, a city that felt like a living, breathing entity that's now a hologram of itself, a place that flatlined but was never informed it was dead, but I'll try to limit myself by just suggesting every 'artist' in the area, every liberal arts student who finds everything so boring and are so frustrated by how boring is in and so they have to be bored but really it's not fun to find the irony in everything, should read the Handbook For The Recently Deceased. It'll explain a lot. Oh, and ladies? Give the tom boy look back to the twinks, and then your boyfriends can shave their grungy, patchy beards off and embrace their masculinity in a less desperate fashion.

What happened to the LES? It was never the Desperately Seeking Susan nightilfe I wanted, more like pro skaters and guys from Interpol doing coke in the back of Dark Room, but it wasn't a haven for bridge and tunnel popped collars who think eight bucks for a bottom shelf drink is a steal. LAME. Club after club full of people 'slumming' and drinking overpriced cocktails. But I don't come for the strangers, I come for my friends, and they are all still overwhelmingly full of awesome. I'd rather catch an STD in Mars Bar with Jacquellyn any day than be forced to pretend to dance to the same motown shit in every bar. Which, incidentally, I dread when that trend hits L.A.

Everyone I know here is so wonderful, smart, and sick of this place that I think there's only one solution: we all move to some amazing new place, where the rent is filthy cheap and we can occupy entire city blocks, open our own galleries, make our own art, and not spend days developing a pricey drinking problem in response to the twenty three year old anorexic aspiring model who looks like a boy in a sports bra who thinks she's the fucking shit and dances for the mirror and an imagined audience, and will go on to some undeserved position of power at Tribeca Films because her daddy runs a segment of it.