I think by now it is quite clear to myself and my .57 readers that I treat this blog, the correct and all encompassing name for thoughts published on the internet, much more like a monthly column than a daily updated site where I post pics and dish on gossip I heard at last nights soiree.  I suppose even, that I really only write this column, if you will, because even though it is not widely read, and there are no pictures or links or advertisements (all on purpose but probably ultimately just the result of this not being a top priority in my average important life) I feel a string of responsibility that connects me to it, and on occasion (about once or twice a month, I'd say?) I indulge this feeling with a rambling, nonsensical, purely selfish rant of my thoughts and opinions and observations on my oh so average life.  I like to begin usually with a scenario of some kind, never over dramatized to keep with the average theme, but sometimes a tad preachy and always over a normal word limit. 

Average evening last night walking my dog, 11pm. Slight chill in the air. I'm on Prince, trying to pull back the pup from her favorite outdoor cafe spot for dropped food, and who is there but little nome beauty queen MK, looking ever so tiny and accompanied by some ever so unattractive man-boys. Ok.

Stroll back to my stoop where I am greeted by my roommates and my favorite man-boy, roommate's Bob. Bob expresses his growing disdain for the neighborhood, a spew I think brought on by the nome, but I'm starting to fully appreciate his point.  I understand that what I'm about to say is basically the thesis statement direct from the "Why We Moved to Brooklyn" memo, but the fact that so few places (and when I say places, I don't mean entire bur-roughs, I mean establishments, for god's sake) remain sacred is almost scarier to a little average Manhattanite like myself than the impending collapse of our economy is to the one friend I have on Wall St.  Terrifying, to say the least.

Yet I think there is a slight inconsistency to my reasons for feeling violated.  I am the one who lives here, the nome and all the other ones just like her lurking around every corner of lower Manhattan pretend its their town because for the most part they are left alone (another case in point, who really gives a fuck about this celebrity sham forced upon Americans through reality tv and the insane paychecks and privileges offered to those who attempt, but rarely succeed, to entertain?), and theoretically a celebrity can exist in this city just as any average person does.  Disclaimer: When I say average person, I take full responsibility for that person being myself and my friends, and when I say celebrity, I'm not really talking about Madonna or anyone comparable.  I'm more of the Adrian Brody, Josh Hartnett, Natalie Portman sensibility.  And of course, Kiki D.  If this is so, I wonder if they often only stay temporarily to avoid becoming fully immersed in the anonymity of NYC and watching their careers trickle away while they sit chain smoking at a cafe remembering the good old days of network series and blockbuster movies.  But this outcome is a safe bet either way considering they leave New York for Hollywood to make a movie that costs millions, tanks at the boxoffice, scratches a notch off their credibility chart, and forces them to come back to the city in search of a more serious, grittier, lower-paying role.  Fascinating turn of events.

So while this all just played out in my mind in a much more entertaining manner than the Real Housewives or Rock of Love, it really has no effect on me personally.  Nothing about this form of gentrification, if you will, really impacts my average existence.  There is not one thing that has changed, or will change in the immediate future in my life because MK ate, or eh, sat, or smoked, at a cafe a block from my apartment.  Except if she keeps taking up court at the outdoor table my puppy will scarcely have a morsel of food to snag off the ground!