A Fool And A Charlatan

As anyone who's seen Citizen Kane can tell you, publishing a manifesto full of first principles when you take over a newspaper can be a very dangerous thing. All too often, these big ideas have a nasty habit of whipping around and biting you on the ass later.

Not that I think new New York Press Harry Siegel is any Charles Foster Kane (of course I could be wrong about that). Nor did I find most of what was promised by Siegel and his fellow editors in last week's manifesto concerning the future of the paper patently distasteful. Most of it, in fact, sounded fairly reasonable. He may put a little more stock in politics than I do, but then again so do most people. And his threat to publish poetry did make me shudder violently. But it's his paper now, he can publish "Casserole of the Week" recipes or carpet-cleaning tips if he wants. No skin off my ass.

There was, however, one sentence that irked me considerably and demanded some kind of response:

"Only fools and charlatans?wish it were 1988 again, when the city was crime-ridden and madman-strewn, on the cusp of bankruptcy and the verge of race riots."

Well, fool and charlatan that I may be, Siegel's sorely mistaken about that. Quite a few of us would gladly return to the New York of 1988.

It's worth noting that I lived in Philadelphia at the time, but made fairly regular trips up here, before finally moving to Brooklyn in 1990.

It should also be noted that in 1988 Harry was 10 years old. Perhaps, like so many of us, he had a difficult time in the 5th grade, and so can probably be forgiven for not being fully aware of the wonders around him back then-as well as for not remembering the New York of those days with a sharp precision.

A small history lesson seems to be in order for Siegel. Maybe a sociology and psychology lesson as well. Those of us who preferred the New York of 1988 to the one of today have some very good reasons.

First, a few specifics.

When Siegel claims that the city was on "the cusp of bankruptcy," he seems to be confusing the late late 80s with the late 70s. By 1988, Ed Koch had actually turned the city's economy around, more than doubling the budget during his term in office.

And I'm not sure what counts as being "on the verge of race riots"-Howard Beach had been two years prior, in 1986, and Crown Heights was still three years away. Perhaps Siegel was using a broader definition of "on the verge" than most. One also has to wonder (as a friend of mine did) if Siegel believes that race relations are fine and dandy nowadays.

His comment about crime seems to indicate that he's actually fallen under the hypnotic spell of the NYPD's statisticians. Yes, there was plenty of crime in New York then, but there's still plenty of it today, even if it's classified differently.

As for madmen, well, I guess some of us just appreciate our madmen a little more than others.

But what about living in New York on a daily basis in 1988? I made my share of jaunts up here, but didn't live here.

M y girlfriend Morgan, though, was born and raised in New York, was 17 in 1988, and the two of us sat down one recent afternoon and began sharing our memories of that time, compiling a list of a few of the aspects and amenities of life in the city that are, sadly, long gone.

"If you were 17 and getting your first taste of freedom," she said, "it was an amazing place."

You could smoke in bars like civilized people, for one thing. And the bars themselves weren't all hipster joints full of college students-there were real bars, too, accidental dives, not just the "ironic" kind you see today. Hell, back then Spring Lounge was still a low-level mob bar, where the ladies with the big hair would sit at the back table and run numbers all day. You didn't bother them, they didn't bother you. It was a nice arrangement.

Times Square was still alive, and still had some character. I'm not just talking about the pimps, whores, hustlers, dealers and porn shops, either. There were real NYC characters on the streets, and real movie theaters (as opposed to corporate megaplexes) where you could sit all day and see movies you would never, ever see anywhere else-and get a floor show at the same time. A movie ticket didn't cost $10, either-and the Worldwide was open on the Upper West Side, showing second-run features for two dollars. Can't do that anymore.

You didn't need to rely on delivery services-you could buy your weed (or whatever you wanted) from the free-range sidewalk salesmen or the storefront operations.

CBGB actually mattered back then. In fact the music scene in general mattered-and the clubs were great. Hell, Morgan and I first met (though we didn't realize it until years later) at a Pogues show at the old Ritz in November of '87.

St. Marks Books was still on St. Marks Place. And even though the Gap had just taken over that corner spot (briefly), the rest of the street still held tight to a bit of attitude. It was more a cultural strip than a commercial strip. Now it's all cellphone stores and boutiques.

(It goes without saying too that in 1988, assholes with cellphones weren't even an issue.)

Every bit of free space wasn't covered with some form of advertising. You could actually still see building facades, and along Houston you could still look up and see the sky.

As for rents, normal (and abnormal) people could afford a half-decent apartment in the East Village. And in Park Slope, where I live, rents were actually pretty cheap. Then again, when I moved there in 1990, you could still find dealers and hookers on the corner outside my window. And I'll tell you, they never hassled me in the least. Certainly not like the stroller brigade that shoved them out.

The list goes on forever. The sidewalk book vendors-and for that matter, the sidewalk porn vendors. The indie record shops. Drug stores that weren't CVS, Rite Aid or Duane Reade.

The city wasn't flooded with surveillance cameras watching our every move. Tattoos were still considered outlaw. The ubiquitous band flyers were handmade and interesting. You could dress how you wanted and get away with it. Drink or smoke a joint on the sidewalk and get away with it. Ride your bike with a few friends on a Friday night and get away with it. Do most anything you wanted (so long as you weren't too stupid) and get away with it.

And that was the thing. In those days, long before New Yorkers started worshipping a hole in the ground and prostrating themselves before the police, there was a air of freedom here, of liveliness and experimentation. That's what New York is supposed to represent.

Mayors weren't schoolmarms who told us what was best for us. And artists could set out to shock people without fear of swift and sharp reprisals from government officials. Shocking people (or trying to shock them) was part of the territory, while being "tourist friendly" was not.

Was the city seedy? Of course it was. It wasn't as bad as it had been a decade earlier, but you could still find seediness if you wanted to-and an awful lot of us wanted to.

Oh, I could go on, but what it boils down to is this-in 1988 when the Press was founded, New York was still New York. It might have already been the beginning of the end-by the early 90s, the developers were staking out their various territories, and foundation work on the Great Simulacrum had begun. But back in those scary days of 1988, there was still life and energy to be found. There was still a real human face behind the mask. It's something a lot of us remember and miss-and something Siegel might want to at least try and understand as he takes the helm of a paper that tried its damnedest to capture the spirit of those days.