First, I read this life-changing article in the NY times that made me pack three boxes of shit for the Salvation Army. Then I overhead someone call Schenectady “The Hamptons of Upstate.” He, no doubt, never meant that as a vile and pejorative; rather, he meant a bourge mecca of magic but that’s precisely the problem.  I’ve never been to Schenectady so I leave room for error in my thoughts.  I do, however, go to the countryside of Upstate, NY to get the fuck away from anything like the Hamptons. So when raw charm gets tamed, polished and fixed up to suit city sensibilities and their high-class, plugged-in demands, it becomes precisely that: the Hamptons of Upstate.  It’s sad that money fixes things, like massive plastic surgery.  You become such a seemingly perfect conception of your ideal self that your actual face is lost in the stretched, plump, smooth alternative of something that once resembled you.  I’m still trying to keep it pure. Until I'm 30.