It always strikes me as odd when a private school girl decides she will throw away her parents' money, pick up her high-laced hooker boots and re-route her life from the shady, but never dull, alleyways of St. Mark's Place, to the high-profile hills and (dollar)bills of Los Angeles. Oh wait. I just know of one girl.
I have to hand it to Lady Gaga, Class of 2004 graduate of New York City's Convent of the Sacred Heart, though. She had it right: “What am I supposed to do, canoodle with celebrities at a nightclub, with a lemon-drop Midori in my hand? It’s not the same as being in a bar that smells like urine with all your really smart New York friends.”
'Cause at the end of the day, when you've finally smelled and breathed the suffocating scent of the West Coast dollar bills, you'll wish it was more like New York and the sweet, sweet, never-nauseating-for-a-New Yorker-to-smell smell, of urine.
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