My initial failure to let go of the past and hope things return to how they once were always plagues me.  Time and time again, I try to see the good in people only to land on my face. The time WAS always then and it is always NOW.

Thing is: I’m getting tired. The boutique hotels will keep coming, the Italians will be kicked to the curb by the Chinese and the Noltians will bounce them all. The “cool” kids will continue their boring, corporate white pantry parties and I’m just giving them free PR.  Most pressed Casio keys and the rest are robots in Dior.  I don’t care about the Boom Boom Room; I’ve high-fived a bunch of pseudo-celebrities and they don’t have much personality.  And no heart to boot. And, New York, was once, HEART. I’m no saint but I appreciate heart.  Oh your brother was hard core? Dude, he was on the sailing team. How hard core is that? A gaggle of Connecticut yups are home in the City. Maybe they never left. Lights on, congrats. It turns out, I’m just spinning the machine and  it’s all quite cyclical. They party and take black and white pictures. I write about them and their sunglasses covering their doped up eyes. The real misfits and derelicts flew away years ago.  If you like your city clean, New York is your city.  And, it will always be my city, but I need to let go of notions of driving down the West Side Highway in an Escalade, walking past Vice’s headquarters and tagging their door with a “Foam Free in 03′” sticker and ever hoping to find the stolen Beatrice (RIP) sign.

The little neighborhood eateries will close and Rag and Bone will open another mini shop. The Bowery will set out its entire lot of restaurant supply stores and lighting shops. Five years ago, my mom was horrified I lived at Spring and Bowery.  Freeman’s Alley was just opening, now it has spawned a child.  Duane Reade will hit a few more corners. More dive bars will close. The shaving cream will stay pricey. The Montauk surf girls who work PR by day will keep dropping wads and wads at Surf Saturdays, drink $1.00 coffees and buy $60 tee shirts. They will talk about catching their first tube. Big deal, who cares?  That’s evolution, baby. “One man, one wave, all else is bullshit.” Thanks for the truth, Jeff Divine.

The finance homeboys will rock the steaks, the models will rock the finance boys. The models with the “artist” boys won’t be with them long but the “artists” and party promoters will take their money and run. All the other boys will get fired and sent on their merry way. The “artists” will continue their tumblr existences and fraud us all into believing they are real.  Tweet that, Jimbos. Another taco truck will open in Nolita, another Shake Shack, and Chumley’s probably won’t reopen. If it does, it will never be the same.  I assume you can import saw dust but those two yellow labs with the white faces are long gone. Sitting at the bar at Habana is still okay, while I roll my toothpick around, but I don’t know anyone who works there anymore and I can’t bear the long lines.  Maybe I’m impatient in my old age.

Beards, flannel shirts, J. Crew and Americana will continue to dope the place up. The LES will give Max Fish another year to avoid their own PR woes, then dump em’ like a ton of bricks. Marc Jacobs West Village scenario is completely tapped out — boring to talk about, because it’s been going on for years.  I’m tired of reporting on makeup shops in the Miracle Grill spot. On my way home from the mall of America, I can probably still have a pint at Shark Bar but I can’t see Tarka anymore.  He’s dead and gone. So is Steve, Matt and all the other characters who filled up New York in its final real hours. At least, the Harley is still up the block, that gives me a hint of solace.

Brooklyn will continue to intensify and keep the artists and parents and most of my friends because no one can afford the City anymore. If they can afford it, I want to know what they are doing other than the aforementioned finance or Client Number Nine gigs.  Don’t get me wrong, I still love seeing who I love seeing and doing what I love doing. I’ll keep coming back and getting my coffee and Ceci Cela, say hi to Michelle at Shark, and ask the Turk to play me Pearl Jam, even if he’s the only one on the North Shore with the long hair.  Ill still hit up the other Mexican place, Ignacio’s for his mom’s nopales.

But, 2003? Note to self: that shipped sailed, sister. I’ve been living in 2003, and it’s 2011. I’m bored being bored with myself.

You can’t go home again. (N Fresh: I promise I’ll stop sweating you about New York City).

I’ll find the next place.

Spring has sprung, kids. Feel the force.

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