I always said I should write down my memiors and opinions, you know the kind regular folk say to creative types after a few drinks at a grimy bar at 2am. Seems like a great idea half sloshed but in the morning, hangovers and reality come and ruin the party.
But this guy Kurt encouraged me to keep trying and so I'm giving it a shot. I've never really written before, other than the occasional dirty limerick in a Lower East Side bathroom when I had a sharpie on me. Do I have anything to say that you normal folks would give a shit about?
I live in the East Village, not the fucking internet. I don't have Facebook or Myspace, and barely know how to email. I've been down on 7th Street and Ave B for the last few years, bouncing around the neighborhood before that. A lot of couch surfing and crashing on benches occasionally.
I saw this neighborhood change for the worse over and over again. Recently it's become unbearable and I've had to start hitting people in the face. This one fuck in a polo shirt thought that just because his Rugby pals were around that he could talk shit at 7B. I smashed his face into the bricks outside, I think the bloodstain is still there.
I knew we were in trouble when Pinkberry dropped in on St. Marks. Then that shit CBGB store opened up and they filmed some awful rich bitch drama there. That's when I realized what had happened. You post 9/11 fuckfaces had brought LA here.
It trickled in with that Ed Hardy trucker hat bullshit. Then every other girl I had buy me drinks was from Orange County. Pinkberrys start popping up, then Sex in the City the movie starts filming over at the Starbucks near K-Mart in Astor Place. That's when I put it together.
All you little Californian cunts grew up watching that ragged corpse you call Sarah Jessica Parker shamble through the streets of NYC and you knew that life in the OC was so fake and like not cool at all. There was something missing in your life as The Hills took the airwaves and you just knew you'd never be rich or pretty enough to be them.
So you came here, thinking that if you dropped enough on vintage rock band t-shirts that retired before you were even born, but somehow are now making a comeback to sell out one last time, you could reinvent yourself and live like they did in Rent, only with a trust fund safety net.
You're no starving artist, and maybe I'm not either. I'm just a bitter, elitist drunk wandering aimlessly through the streets. But you don't see me going to the West Coast, surfboard and frappachino in hand, complete with bleached blone whore girlfriend in Uggs and a denim skirt.
Go look at Broadway and Houston, marvel at the giant Hollister sign, complete with pier, sunset, and seagull, and then realize that it replaced a giant DKNY (fuck fashion) with NYC skyline, and take another bite of your Green Tea frozen yogurt with fresh raspberries and tell me this city isn't being overrun.
Fuck you California.
Love,
Rod.
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