Too Bad You Missed The Real New York

As Walt Whitman said before moving to Camden, NJ

I arrived in New York City, to stay this time, in December 2000 and was assured over and over again that I’d missed The Real New York City.

This assurance has doubtlessly been handed down at least since Walt Whitman supposedly ditched the city after returning from the Civil War to find that “his” city was no more. He headed for greener pastures first in Washington, DC and then Camden, New Jersey.

I hope that worked out for him but it wouldn’t for me

During those supposed “real” days in New York City, I was in the Real Cleveland Ohio complete with boarded-up businesses, people lining up to get free blocks of pretty good cheese from the government, and the largest city at that point to go into default on its loans. Our boy mayor, Dennis Kucinich, almost got himself offed by the mafia for saving Cleveland’s city-owned electrical power plant and had gotten himself recalled for his efforts. To this day Clevelanders in certain parts of the city can still get their electrical power for two-thirds of what the rest of the city has to pay The Illuminating Company. Thanks, Dennis.

I had this friend, Peter, and he was incredibly fond of letting me know at every opportunity that I’d arrived in New York too late. He was far from the only one singing this sad song, but it was one of his favorites and I heard many, many times about The Real New York from him and others.

Because muggings and murder make a place more authentic?

Ah, the good old days when you had to stomp your feet while walking down the middle of the deserted streets of Soho to keep the rats away. Then there was always the thrill of drinking in Alphabet City and seeing whether or not you’d make it home without having a knife or a gun shoved into your face with the invitation to hand over your money. Oh, and the old Hellfire club, when everyone was having sex everywhere!

For the record, I got to the city in time to go to the legendary Hellfire Club several times. The floor was sticky and the few people actually having sex were surrounded by wankers, pulling on their limp members and snorting poppers.

It’s all as edgy and fun as it sounds.

Peter passed away in 2012, grumbling to the end about how his city had disappeared. He’s joined a grand lineage there and far be it from me to argue with a dead man. But he’s wrong.

Yes, Times Square has been quite deliberately transformed into some grotesque Disneyland where the tourists can lose their hard-earned money in the two-story M&Ms store. And no one can take in the views from the High Line anymore because developers have built hideously ugly condominiums hemming it all in. Hudson Yards? Thanks a pantload, Mike Bloomberg.

And, yes, also to the legitimate complaints about the corporatization of Manhattan where banks, franchise businesses, and (now) vacant stores far outnumber the myriad of interesting little shops that once pumped the life up and down this weird island.

Look around, it’s not just New York, friends

As the ever-widening jaws of unfettered capitalism unhinge like that of an enormous python ready to swallow everything and shit out money being funneled into a very select few pockets, the diversity and wonder of our cities are being dismantled.

On December 23, 2019, I will celebrate my 19th year in New York City. It’s not a city that sits still and there’s no arguing with the fact that the New York I moved to nearly two decades ago is no more. But I will still affirm, loudly, that the Real New York is as real now as it was when Peter was scaring rats in Soho. God knows the rats are still here. And so is the energy, the mad chaotic whirl of 8 million people pinging off each other in 8 million directions, the ferocious determination of newcomers ready to take it all on, and the resigned smiles of those of us still suiting up and showing up regardless of the changes.

Never fear, my lovelies, your New York is every bit as “real” as anyone else’s

The artists are still here and so are the free spirits. New York City is more than Manhattan and the creative animals simply migrate. Even parts of Queens and The Bronx have become enclaves for the musicians, artists, makers, and weirdos who can’t afford Brooklyn anymore and aren’t ready to start homesteading Detroit.

New York City, like anyplace, is as real as you choose to make it. Sick of pouring half or more of your income into rent on a studio the size of your parents’ bedroom? Suck it up.

No one said it was going to be easy here but, trust me, it’s very, very Real.

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