Last year was vanilla ice cream cone.  This year is Purell.  The solution that kills. 99.9% of germs. Imagine a Ghostbuster sized Stay Pufft marshmallow man pumping a giant Purell Bottle over the dirty city.

I remember when my sister got lost in the Mall.  I was only six or seven but the panic on my parents face.  Later, she got stuck in an elevator at my dad’s office. Again, panic.  This year, I think I understand the panic.  Still, there is no urgency to the yup-yup-yuppification of Manhattan. Richie Rich would even be bored.

Around this time last year, I penned My Own Private Ripco and sadly, not much as changed.  Not that I expect “change” in this manner to be good.  Yes, New York is still vanilla and everyone has moved to Brooklyn.  This means, when I visit New York City, I have to visit all my friends in the outer boroughs.   This means I’m forced to eat and drink at Brooklyn restaurants.

Oh well, not much is going on in Manhattan.  To my mind come the immediate departures of Max Fish, Pink Pony, The Stoned Crow and what looks to be the impending nail in the coffin for Mars Bar.  Where can a girl drink? Oh, right the trendy ass beer gardens at the Standard. Nope, I can still get my suds at the Ear. Plus, I’m not spending all my time at the hotels. Peace out to Le Jardin and Knife and Fork. At the very  least, the Sex and the City bus tours came to a halt. Too bad it didn’t stop the hailstorm of cupcakes and more cupcakes. Maybe New York City is being attacked by a giant cupcake.  Hello, supersized Duane Reade! My once, beloved, Spring Street is toast.

This atop the Madison slash Soho-ifcation of that once quaint strip of West Village known as Bleeker Street. Now cluttered with Marc + Marc by Marc add Michael “Too Cool” Kors and Burberry. Oh well, all that new paint looks nice.  I should stop complaining.  Being clean is good.  Everyone is so Purelled to the yin yang, so why not continue down that road of shiny happy people.  Achoo. Bless me, Times Sqaure is SAFE.

The hipsters were written about in academic fashion; What WAS the Hipster? I need slaps in the face for the following: The number one rule of Fight Club was broken. Lame.  Why does everyone feel they need to out another. Come’on Kids, Don’t Ask Don’t Tell should still apply downtown. You are bunch of tattle tales. Part of the old, New York (I’m thinking 1999) was keeping things underwrap.  Shroud some mystery. Still, everyone is hiring the blond chick to work out their PR kinks.  In the faux club world, Paul Sevingny might be dethroned by plaid shirt up and comers.  Oh well, you can’t live your entire life on Kenmare. That basement is too white for me and Nur is still wearing his vests. Does anyone REALLY care?  Probably not. I’m sick of giving press to people who get press.  I’ve got heat bills to pay. Still, I must confess, Don Hills is lame…add to all the other Purple Label clubs.  Speaking of Purple, Ollie thinks New York is prude, again lame, out of the powder induced fogginess one day will emerge the truth. Brah, you are NOT Freud. I wish. Slap myself again. Be nice! Perhaps in lieu of his recent travels, even Ollie is sick of rocking the Standard, Omen, and the same trustafari filled streets of the Mad-hatter. Maybe even Ollie has turned over a new leaf in the New Year.  His hands need lubrication from the drying of the Purell.

Outside the city, the Montauk Mafia continues to plead its case for East Coast surfing with their high dollar weekend gear.   I’m not really going to go there anymore, except to say any conspiracy theories on how the Montauk Monster died should be directed to the Montauk Mafia and the PR chicks in the Gucci stilettos by weekday, barefoot, earth-den, Tracy Feith surfer by weekend. I STILL say tie one on…Don’t you remember when Ditch Plains was chill?  Probably not. Yet, Roxy girl will swear up and down she always loved Montauk even though she sold her house in East Hampton after the Surf Shack was erected. “It’s like the old Nolita on the ocean…” sigh sigh sign sister. Gone baby gone. Oh brother, now Rockaway is the next candidate for stardom.  Drum roll…

Currently, there’s a bunch of snow and trash everywhere.  People pointing fingers at the system.  Even Bloomberg looks to be coming unglued; pick up a shovel my friend. Seriously, it’s embarrassing. New York City, the rich city can’t clean up the tra$h.

Enter, Purell.  Exit, New York.