Always thought I'd leave feet first, but this last leg
of Covid’s got me ponderin' …
Phone. Remember these? Then you’re old …
All Photos: Christopher Scalzi / Distilled Studio
Am I a curmudgeon? (A bit.) Am I a bitch? (Yes.) Can I blame the pandemic? (Oh fuck yes.) — but now, in the year 2021, approaching my 71st birthday — I wonder — am I just too fucking old for this town?
I always vowed to leave Manhattan when I’d bump into my nephew at clubs. Or media events. Or high roller restaurants. ‘Cause I owned this town, goddammit. Well, that same “kid” became a super star. And scrammed for the Hamptons when THIS happened — months ago. To procreate. And now considers New York City OVUH.
O New York, how thy tryest my last nerve. Have I hung around too long? The evidence ...
1. I still loathe going to Brooklyn. Or Jackson Heights. Or Astoria. Or any of the “groovy” new boroughs (did I just say groovy?) I’m Pete Hamill, age 11, born in Brooklyn, longing to cross the Bridge that would take me to the golden land of Manhattan. So. Not goin’…
(And if you're askin' who's Pete Hamill? Groan …)
2. I can no longer get it up to pay $280 plus tip for a haircut. Yes — I am a fusspot about my tresses. But Covid’s left its mark: Dough — and lack of same. My look is no longer a DO, it's a solid DON'T. At this point I'm considering the corner barber. Taking a load off in one of those old chairs. Hoping the barber’s name is “Tony.” Is this longing for “old” NY pathetic? Maybe. But I still want that damn chair.
3. Speaking of ‘old New York. Candy stores. Newsstands. Penny stores (ok ok Dollar stores.) New York is constantly changing. I get that. But with that constant change — it is constantly leaving people behind. Finding a Jacks Dollar Store now makes me weepy.
4. My deli guy has moved back to Pakistan. The block is deflated. And I am crushed. Now, it is run by his prick-esh nephew. The last real deli in the hood. Where he charged $7.00 for a shitty coffee. But I merrily paid to be with … HIM.
5. Scaring the bejesus saying hello to zombies on phones — in the streets — on lines and especially in elevators — they glare at their screens as I torture them with my polite in-your-face “GOOD MORNING”. This has become a beloved morning ritual. It replaces the deli 'cause now — I make my own (shitty) coffee.
6. I miss kids. Whodathought? Minus the return-to-school-travel-time, the children have all been suddenly whooshed off … pooof! I'm all for adult content, but this is a little much.
7. Searching for restaurants in my West Village hood — what we are calling restaurants these days, mostly sheds outside — with glittery lights — so (old) Paris — but — where is the age diversity already? Only people in their 20s and 30s? Just a year ago it was — normal. Me and my 50-esh neighbor commiserate on the stairs — has the neighborhood changed? Or is it … us?
8. Speaking of dining: Totally done with $55 entrées. I DO want these over-priced haunts to survive (oh poor Keith McNally) — and I’ll splurge on an $18 wine (!!??) I can no longer afford for the cause. But a meal? It's a no. I can actually cook now — WOAH — and who needs a sneering waiter when I ask for ketchup. Fuck you.
9. Get outta he-ah: You're gonna use the bike lane like a high-speed freeway? Riding in the wrong direction touting an attitude? Brings up some rage.
10. I said get the fuck outta he-ah already: Oh and the motorized bikers using the SIDEWALK now. People: The one reason bike lanes were constructed was to get them off the sidewalk ‘cause they were killing people riding on the sidewalk!!! More rage.
Getdafuckouttaheah
11. But another thing: The Mail service! Several times a year a handwritten envelope — perfectly legible — is returned to sender as un-deliverable.
Name is correct. Address is correct — just returned.
Thank you notes for wedding gifts — returned.
Christmas cards — returned. Once a year I like to hear from some members of my family!
Oh! Wedding invitations — returned.
Meanwhile, all my suburban friends and family receive their mail even when the names and addresses are way wrong!
Am I an official curmudgeon or is the mail service in this god forsaken town just plain old bad? It ain’t COVID! It has sucked for a long long time. And it’s “nearly” over (we hope.)
But today I’m marching over to the post office to raise hell about it.
12. My neighbors DARE to party till 11pm: I mean. Really. A pal was over when I was ranting about overhearing them at 10:45 — my bed time now — when she patiently reminded me of MY old debaucheries — and how they would start at midnight. Oops.
13. The homeless: And oh there are so so many of them. Unlike the '70s when I lived through this before, I no longer am (or tried to be) that hardened New Yorker. Now, they break my heart now. Each and every one of them.
14. Remember bookstores?
I do. Hang in there, Strand …
15. I even miss drop-in waxing by the often masochist “aestheticians” in the seedy street salons I’d frequent. Never thought I'd be wistful for a curt "Lift yo' leg," but both me and my bush are woolly and desperate these days.
16. My old “cool” neighborhood dissed by the young: When my beloved nephew complained that Tribeca was filled with old entitled white folks — "The Tribeca Tribe" — I stopped him in mid rant: Wait — two of my coolest artist friends still live there (I cannot mention them as they are still top drawer.) He gave me some serious side eye.
17. I live down the street from Carrie's stoop from Sex and the City. I usta hate the 20-year olds torturing the owners. Now I crave them. Bad sign…
18. Construction. No words. Here before Covid. With Covid. The tail end of Covid. An extra layer of shit: Noise, steel, and other debris for easy decapitation.
Stay strong — oh yes, gotta be. Fuck you.
19. Pedestrian Plaza: Bloomberg’s “success” of Disney-fying (i.e. ruining) all things cool about ole pimp’d out Times Square. It’s a 2-block square of my personal nightmare where tourists ‘hang’ and manage not to get rammed by cars and creepy groping Mickey Mice. But, now there is no Broadway — so — there’s that.
20. People leaving NYC saying how "it's changed/it's so different/ I need to live simpler: Bitch, you are leaving because you CAN. Some of us are here because we love it, or love to hate it, or hate to love it, BUT ALSO because we all don't have the means to buy a fucking country house in Catskill to "start over.” Privilege: Check it.
21. Cancel high-end retail: The ones that still exist. Some life bubbling in the not too distant future but — it ain’t the ole New York — where it was fun to GET DONE — so many places to see and be seen. That impulse and opportunity has died. (Sorry Bergdorf’s)
22. Where are the old Jazz dudes at the old Jazz joints?? The other night, hearing great music, freezing my arse off as one does — with about 40 people around, I realized that only 3 or 4 of them were anywhere — anywhere — near my age. Do these youngies know Sonny Rollins, Elvin Jones or Sarah Vaughan?? Do I care? Jazz joints usta always be mixed ages ... I could swear …
23. Boyfriends Recyled: I always swore that I would never “revisit” a boyfriend type once done with them. There are so many in New York City! Musicians, painters, actors, designers, writers, Brazilians (yes, countries count) — and thankyouverymuch not a businessman in site — or between my legs.
However, It’s been a bitch not to repeat “types.” So I have had to (four cyclists and counting). I have been cruising here for nearly 46 years. And Manhattan is an island, after all ….
24. THE Recycling Boyfriend bit me in the ass — 46 years later. I told my present boyfriend that I had never gone out with a musician — he's a drummer and my very first. He questioned that, as we are equally long-toothed ...
I racked my brain and — wait — I had been with this jazz pianist when I was new and fresh in NYC four decades ago — met him at a cool Soho party (remember cool Soho parties?) I remember what he played. I remember who he played with (impressive.) But name? Blank. Once it came to me zillions of hours later, the drummer said: WHA? I know him. My ex played with him. She not only played with him but gave me crabs from him.
The reclycling bit me in the ass.
My boyfriend of yore gave my present boyfriend a case of the crabs.
Is this, indeed, the final insult?
So there they are — my gripes and rage and annoyances. As Clark Terry would say (who's Clark Terry? Oh shut up) I’m not complainin’ — I’m explainin’ …
But really — is there anything MORE New York than bitchin’ about how New York has changed? It was fun to see Fran Leibowitz and Martin Scorsese goin at it in “Pretend It's A City.” And hate to sound like Fran but — where would I go? Paris? Rome? Lisbon? They’re all great — for six months. But Manhattan? Sigh … until that damn skyline no longer makes me swoon — I remain. The last standing soldier … kvetching.