The Rich and The Rich

Two weekends ago I downloaded a slew of songs from Elton John and Smokey Robinson. It’s a strange combination, but it worked. Needles to say at the end of the weekend I was so depressed I could have looked a kitten in the eye and made it cry.

A half a week later I’m still listening to the Tracks of my Tears and Madman Across the Water albeit in a slightly less depressed manner. I got to see my shrink twice this week, and that always takes the edge off. In fact it puts the edge on so intently for that 45 (times two) minutes that I have none of it left for when I’m walking into the chaos of my apartment. And it is chaos. I’ve reached this point where I spend so much time working that when I’m not working, I create work for myself because I’m not sure how else to exist in my waking hours. But don’t worry because that’s only happened for like four and half hours in the last month.

I was just at the opening party for the Institute Clarins on Madison and 80th street and a PR woman asked me my beat. It’s the Upper East Side, which is so fucking weird. I should be used to walking among the rich and privileged at this stage in my life. And most of the time I am. I sympathize with the old people whom the bicyclist delivery boys on the sidewalk scare the daylights out of, and the Chinese menus on the steps of their million dollar condos that drive them batty. I go out to events so I can write blurbs on their landmark renovations, their zoning law fights, the latest anti-aging serum trend, the beloved retiring doorman. But every so often, usually when I’m commuting home on a late 4/5 train with tired mothers, janitors and nurses so I can get home to sleep and wake up in time for my paying gig, I realize what freakin weirdos they are.

Lest you get the wrong idea, I’m psyched that someone has given me the go ahead to report on them, on anyone. I like getting the stories, seeing my name on the newsprint, even if it’s about the new dog psychologist on 81st and Lex. Actually that wasn’t my story, but it could have been. And there are the perks, like the Clarins Body Polisher they gave away tonight (i know, body polisher???), and when Peter Bogdonavich breathed on me, and I sqeezed by Philip Seymour Hoffman at a funny awards ceremany Monday night. That was fucking cool.

I asked some fellow reporters if they ever sat in the community meetings where people bitched about the yellow cab stand’s various misdemeanor infractions (yes, they have freakin yellow cab stands in the upper east side!), if they ever sat in those meetings and longed to cover a neighborhood where people had problems like crime and drugs and health care… They said they did sometimes, but that would probably get old and depressing and frustrating just as fast, maybe faster.

But the thing is, everyone takes their problems and their lives seriously. We all do, I guess. I certainly do, most of the time. No new revelations here.

But let me just tell you this one thing: The lips I’ve seen on aging white women, it’s a fucking miracle of science…

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