The Farm is no longer playing the media game. Recently Elizabeth Spiers, formerly of Gawker, got a job at New York Magazine. We wish her the best of luck. In fact, we love her the best of luck. We love, love, love Elizabeth Spiers. It's true. (God I wish Sterling actually introduced me to her that one time at Bleecker Bar but I was nervous because the NYTimes quoted her and I had a bad haircut recently and someone told me she was pretty and I always blow it with cute girls even though I'm not on the market.) Very much love the woman. Why? Because she used to link to us fairly frequently when she ran Gawker. Since she left, some other has taken over Gawker and we are verboten, apparently, on the New Gawker (aka, Bad Gawker). Clearly we're too small time for New York Magazine, so we understand that she doesn't link to us anymore from her new blog.

Therefore, since there is no more Elizabeth Spiers, there is no more LasagnaFarm. We tried original content and had fun, but with Liz (can I call her Liz?) gone, it's over for us. Our traffic dropped to ... me. That's right, 1. When Gawker linked to us it would go as high as 100 -- or something; I never figured out our traffic thingy on the hoster.

So, like most sucky blogs out there, we will now be a personal blog that only two of our friends (the ones we aren't getting drunk with every night; aka the ones who moved to some shitty Baltimore locale and bought a house and who we now envy and at the same time hate) will ever read.

Here it goes, this personal blog thing:

I'm getting married! And boy is it expensive to get married in NYC! Let me tell you, it's like getting raped and not getting a reach-around. Jesus, these people think I'm made of money when I walk in, then they shoot me down with their $5000 space-rental fee and $140/head charge. And then I tell them I don't want their shitty band recommendation and I'd rather have an ice cream cake from Carvel because it's an inside family joke (and wedding cakes usually taste like my ass after I just hiked the Sahara with a diaper on) and they look at me cross-eyed and might as well be spitting down my throat. Fuck NYC. I'm moving to Baltimore.