Too Much Seinfeld

In the summer of 2005, many queers whom I would eventually call close friends made a mediocre migration from California to New York City. They left the Bay Area for myriad reasons. Sexual and romantic claustrophobia were high on the list: “Lesbian drama, the feeling of having your shit everywhere, stalker exes, violence.” Creative claustrophobia, too: “No anonymity, no way to travel, explore, get lost.” “Angry tweakers everywhere” was another reason. Yet another was that the old hippies were sobering up, their happiness now a cartoonish, dangerous lie.Yet another: The old hippies were sobering up, their happiness now a cartoonish, dangerous lie. Also, “the tech boom.” And the weather: the fog, the dampness, and the mold—that “there was no such thing as a hot summer night.” 

As for why they left Los Angeles—well, why not leave? The small queer scene in LA certainly and occasionally aspired to significant dysfunction, and not everyone felt nurtured by their close proximity to “the industry.” But the weather stayed perfect; the horizon golden, wide, and holy; the produce colorful, cheap, and infinite. The only reason to leave Los Angeles, really, was the traffic and perhaps its existential effects—the suffocation of being stuck in a car by yourself on a route you know very