“When you care about your 401k, your life is just ‘K.'” I don’t know what that means, but I’d like it carved on my tombstone.
One of the zillions of us who are astonished and even grossed out by the obscenity of current real estate prices in New York’s hippest borough has come up with a novel solution to the dilemma of where to live.
For 10-plus years, I’ve taken a do-it-yourself approach to dealing with anxiety and depression.
“I went to school with kids who were vacationing in Aspen and Vail and their parents drove Mercedes and there was this roar in my head that told me I needed that. It’s funny, because as an adult, I’m uncomfortable around extreme wealth, and it’s not something I want for myself. But back then, yeah, I thought that was what success and happiness would be.”
Almost 200 years after it opened, the cemetery continues to serve customers. You too can be buried there.
Calling out stay-at-home parents is a social sin in posh neighborhoods.
Some people flips houses; Goldman flips neighborhoods.
I worked the coat check at fetish parties, escorted women home from their plastic surgery appointments on the Upper East Side, babysat, dogsat, and cleaned out apartments belonging to hoarders.
MIKE: “I like my apartment, but I don’t love it.” ESTER: “Have you ever loved an apartment?”
“I can’t think of another place where so many people are so quick to jump down each other’s throats.”