If you ain't spent your last $4.63 on a $3.50 sixer of "American Lager" and a box of generic expired spaghetti at C-Town above 122nd, you ain't really lived in New York.

I have no time and a lot of half-formed blog ideas in my head (e.g. the awesomeness of the Mariano Rivera farewell season / victory lap, the badass righteousness of Stevie Wonder refusing to play in any state with a Stand Your Ground law from here on out and how I wish everyone would jump on that bandwagon, WENDY DAVIS FTW, etc.) but like I said: no time. 

So -- how about this: 

There's a line in the NYT Mag piece on Gaby Hoffmann which all by itself convinces me NYC is not the place for me anymore no matter how terribly awfully I miss it (which I do): 

The Palladium is an N.Y.U. dorm called the Palladium.

I never, to my recall, went to the Palladium back in the day (unless we got in with one of those Baird Jones guest list things? which was how we went to any club, ever) -- but fuuuuuuuuuhhh. That was a total Power Down moment, reading that line. I can't even.