New Yorkers

In order to accept the dreary and oppressive conditions of life in Manhattan, or even Park Slope or Astoria — in a city where five million dollars is not enough to buy an apartment all that much bigger than the one you live in — you need to drink the Big Apple-flavored Kool-Aid. You must bow to that false idol that is the god of Gotham. As Born Agains evince a faith in Christ’s salvation that borders on delusional, so a not terribly successful screenwriter-cum-HR-generalist and a not terribly successful acress-cum-marketing-manager who pay two grand for six hundred square feet of squalid living space five elevatorless flights above the ground-level grime must rationalize this prohibitive expense by believing absolutely that New York is an Artist’s Paradise, and the rest of the nation so many benighted circles of Limbaughian hell.

— Greg Olear, Fathermucker (35)