I'm sorry but you are completely wrong about me.
And most of what I've said here, which of course you have so delightedly misinterpreted for the purpose of your displeasure.
That in itself has a certain charm.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with the view that a whole scene could be overpopulated with people bent on self-preservation, economic viability, finding a place to seek whatever pleasure was to their liking, while producing art that for the most part wasn't really so momentous, but still the people -the individuals themselves- possessed a certain toxic attractiveness.
But I understand your dismay at having found there is someone who does not think disagreeing with you means they should stay out of here.
Surely you can see how charming something like New York's art world is when it exercizes some of the city's principal characteristics: distortion, exaggeration, bile, self-absorbed melodrama.
So you should take heart dear S'tan, that even though so many of your acquaintances seem to have become figures of pathos in backward parts of the nation, the underlying character of this city remains ever so twistedly charming.
It is a rather easy exercise for me to call out the names of the Jack Wilers, Patricia Landrums, Bimbo Rivases, the Tomassos, the Giza Endeshas, the Cenens -beautiful, and beautifully flawed, creators who existed in the eye of a blastfurnace scene, who are now all dead. But their destruction provides no priviledged history. It is easy to mention the JD Rages, Steve Canons, Carl Herrs, Diane Burnses, Tito Lespiers, the Jemeel Moondocs, people whose creativity had no peers, living diminished existences after all the great parties only led to punishing rents, careers as cab drivers, regimines of reverse transcriptease inhibitors, methadone or haldol. The charm of these people is that the city never noticed them. And that's the charm of this city too, that it can be so utterly ignorant of what it has. That it can waste so much human brilliance. That the powers of its official myths, once you've lived on the inside, aren't any more noble or admirable than the rude jerk cutting on you in line at the turnstyle.