Anna,
Who can afford to move anywhere these days.
Except maybe back home.
My Dad used to call me "The High Plains Drifter" but I feel more like The High Plains Squatter.
I don't think artists are moving anywhere in particular. Austin?
Miss U. that pic is heart-breaking but I am thrilled to know you can knock the shit over with one well-aimed drunken stilleto kick.
One night F-Major and I did kick a hole in the side of an NYU dorm being built on the Bowery
(across fom the Slide I think it was)
It was literally made out of paper and fibreglas crap.
I keep seeing press on Los Angeles being the astonishingly hip new place for artists. Where you can find a big old studio space and spread out and do welding and stuff like that... I wonder.
Like you used to be able to get a photography studio in Chelsea. Or a place to paint in Soho.
Could there really be real real estate on the cheap, with urban culture and nightlife in the mix?
Round about here on the high mesas there are plenty of artists, as well as artsy-fartsies, but I am still waiting to meet the pack of Kools. I don't think they're at the Hell Hotel with Brown Paul. I have to admit I am not looking that hard. I admit I am into hiding.
Nightlife in New Mexico seems to consist of many mice and rabbits for Binky and Beauregarde to feast on... miles of starshine (the Milky Way)... lunatic DUIs on Blood Alley... a very beautiful 24 hours Chevron Station when you are on empty and 20 more miles to go,
or maybe it's me
with my new purple hair and dark glasses, falling asleep in Whole Foods at closing
in front of the unaffordable bank of white Burgundies, lasciviously re-reading the labels and dreaming of Paris.
xoxoxoxo
Stan