Viva La La Long Island

There is something so wonderfully tragic about Long Island. It’s a place that is a victim of its own success. Parents move from the big bad city to shelter their kids from the evils of urban living. Although little Johnny will end up trying a line of coke for the first time at the tender age of 16 using his older brother’s fake ID at a club in the city, instead of trying a line of coke at the tender age of 16 using his older brother’s fake ID at the VIP section of a club in the city, parents believe that this beeline for the suburbs makes a difference in their children’s lives.

It’s true that to a certain extent it does—life on Long Island disconnects its inhabitants from the ills of urban life. There is no homeless; the poor only have one BMW in their drive way, six year olds carry Prada…it seems that everyone and their grandmother is living this extreme affluence meets Mrs. Cleaver kind of life—happy pills included.

This reality is comfortable. This reality consists of my mother bringing me plates of homemade brownies, chicken sandwiches, bagels and cream cheese, whilst we watch the style channel commenting on ‘Whose wedding is it anyway’.

It becomes a vortex, where quick jaunts home to retrieve old TVs and carpets and ski clothes become this domestic vortex that I cannot escape. Which explains why it took me 30 hours to pick up a TV that didn’t even make it back with me.

When I enter my parents house it becomes a place where I regress—no longer am I required to keep track of my finances (not like I ever have), my mommy does my laundry, picks out my jammies, and even the remote control is brought to me. I live on the couch, getting up only to eat, shit, and sleep.

It’s so nice to be home.

So I spent the last few days on LI—being catered to and coddled.

I had some funny stories, all rooted in anger, but I’m a bit too fat and happy to write anything objective and scathing.

I’m in that special place where I love my mommy and think that the world can do no wrong.