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Revenge of the 'Burbs New York 2002 - Carla Spartos

Carla Spartos
Attention New York culture snobs. Your town looks like the Short Hills mall. You drive cars named Rav. You take the train to Brooklyn on Friday nights to hang out with a bunch of half-wits from Kansas. And you have the nerve to call us bridge-and-tunnel?

Take your tinted toenails. Soaking those tootsies at Go Girl! (193 East 4th Street, 473-9973), flipping through InStyle, and contemplating St. Tropez, you reckoned yourself a regular Park Avenue party girl. News flash: Muffy made the leap from buff to fiesta about 15 months ago. Who do you think perfected that pedicure? All the ladies due north, east, south, and west, that's who—Long Island lovelies, Bay Ridge babes, Wildwood women. So you better step. Besides, we've been saying "go girl!" since we were kicking your preppy asses on The Richard Bey Show.

While we're on the subject of style, let's discuss hair, shall we? We're well aware that you poke fun at our blown-out locks, mainly because you take great pains at making your derision crystal clear. Well, let us tell you: Your assumptions are as tired as your mama's face without Botox. Especially when you have our endless experiments with gels, mousses, and sprays to thank for your stick-straight tresses and platinum streaks. And one more thing: We own the layered haircut. The only innovation Bumble & Bumble (146 East 56th Street, 521-6500) brought to the mullet was a $150 price tag.

Speaking of irony, did you ever take time to notice that fallen publicity princess Lizzie Grubman, with her orange tan, SUV, and famous disdain for "white trash," is more bridge-and-tunnel than we could ever be? No, you were too busy trying to make her A list. Well, we know you dropped her faster than she could those pathetic tears—who wants a Hamptons invite from the Long Island leper? Anyway, Serafina, or whatever "it" lounge you're excluding us from these days, is calling. Don't worry: We'll ruin it for you soon enough.

Because we're not intimidated by your clipboards or your velvet rope. You see, APT (419 West 13th Street, 414-4245) used to be called the bar in our parents' basement. You just painted over the mural of Mt. Vesuvius and added a magnum or two of Cristal. And while we're talking nightlife, let's clear something else up: We were listening to Madonna first. During the '80s, you liked her about as much as you did Lisa Lisa and Shannon. We, on the other hand, have loved dance music from the get-go. Superstar DJ Danny Tenaglia appreciates this: Chelsea boys, uptown trannies, downtown trainspotters, and kids from Jersey all share the floor at his Be Yourself party at Arc (6 Hubert Street, 226-9212)—and Danny's not scared of throwing a little trance into the mix, either. Because we know the only thing you like mocking more than our big hair is our passion for big synths.

Which is funny considering you stole your culinary claim to fame—pizza—from us. Think about it: When's the last time you stopped by your local Manhattan pizza joint and got a nice thin, crisp slice? And places like Lombardi's (32 Spring Street, 941-7994) and John's Pizzeria (278 Bleecker Street, 243-1680) don't count—not only are they pricey, overrated, and unavailable by the slice (hmmph!), they cheat with fancy brick ovens. C'mon. What town are you living in anyway—Chicago? To get a decent pizza, you know you have to go to Brooklyn, the Bronx, Westchester. Hell, even Connecticut probably tosses out better pies than the imitations you've been shilling.

Next time you're shopping at J. Crew, fantasizing about plowing us down with your Rav, why not do everyone a favor and open your small mind? Because this town is as much ours as yours. We're eating in your restaurants, dancing in your clubs, and drinking in your lounges, and we're not going anywhere. We're here, we're bridge-and-tunnel, and we're all up in your area! So get over it, willya?

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