Totally fucked.

"We cannot afford anything in Queens."

There's a moment you know you're fucked; it's when you receive those six little words in an email and know they're true.

To backtrack:

My dear friend Kelda, known by some as the Diamond of the Midwest, was in town this weekend, with joyous news of the possibility of her moving back to New York. On Sunday night, we dined with Kelda's quintessentially New York Aunt Bridget, who doled out advice on many subjects, one of them being the potential purchase of Kelda's potential new New York apartment.

"Queens," she said.

Now, this is a word easily spoken by someone who lives in a superfab apartment on the Upper West Side that she's owned for 20 years. But Kelda's Aunt Bridget is nothing if not sage, and besides, Kelda and I knew it was probably the only place she could afford. We both said the word out loud, with a look of effort as if we were trying to blow smoke rings for the first time.

"Queens."

Later in the evening, Kelda and I waited on line to use the fancy bathrooms in the fancy restaurant where we ate.

"Tomorrow, let's go to Queens, and check it out," Kelda suggested.

Now, readers of my blog will know that, every now and then, I am bitten by the New York real estate bug, which usually leaves me with a stinging, itchy welt.

"Let's go to Queens," I replied. I could probably afford something in Queens. And if Kelda lived there, too, then it wouldn't be so bad.

We met the next morning and took the train to Queensboro Plaza. It was a lovely morning, as it has been all weekend, and we wandered a somewhat sketchy and deserted part of town.

Kelda, forever the optimist:

"Well, there are definitely cheap eats around here," as we passed a grungy take-out place coated in a viscous layer of beige. "And entertainment." (We were passing a less-than-classy strip club.)

My spirits sinking, we wandered some more, turning south and connecting the dots between subway stops. Suddenly, we both saw it: a corner building, gorgeous red brick, windows trimmed in green. A street-level cafe with funky blue chairs on the sidewalk.

Kelda hit me.

"Signs of hipness! Signs of hipness!" we exclaimed, pointing frantically east.

Sure enough, we stumbled onto a little enclave called Hunters Point. Cute little restaurants, a smoothie bar, hip young people! Right by the subway! Blocks from the river!

"Queens...!" I said, nodding, as if made unexpectedly proud by a delinquent son or daughter.

"Queens!" skipped Kelda. There were new buildings going up everywhere, but it was Labor Day, so all the sales offices were closed. Kelda whipped out a notebook and jotted the names of all the buildings we passed, to look up on the internet later.

We were back in Manhattan within minutes.

"That was fast!" I said.

"Queens!" smiled Kelda.

A few hours later, Kelda sends me an email:

"We're fucked. We cannot afford anything in Queens."

She then listed the starting prices for all the buildings we passed in Hunters Point, the smallest of which was a cool half-a-million bucks.

Queens.

It's true, in the racket that is New York City real estate, we're all totally fucked.

And all I have to say is:

BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH.