New York, New York what a ... town

New York City is a strange, little village. People come here from all over the world in search of the 'American Dream' or at least a piece of the pie. I moved here because, if one wants to be a writer, painter, or any other sort of artist, this is the place to be... well, that's the theory. Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle, Miami - these places all have loads of artists but most of the publishing industry is based in New York City. The proximity between the bottom and top is never so close as here. It is also the most aggravating place I've ever lived.

Yesterday, I had a doctor's appointment in Chelsea. Unfortunately, I wasn't gay or insured enough to be seen at this subsidized clinic so, after schlepping myself clear down there to be told I can't be helped, I needed a walk. So, I spent the next couple hours winding my way back and forth across the width of Manhattan Island and from 16th to 59th Street before descending into the Columbus Circle subway and retreating to my cave in the barren northlands of Inwood. It never ceases to amaze me at how big this city is. The diversity of humanity and ascention of buildings leave me over-stimmulated, turning in every direction and finding something new. I am always left either inspired or frustrated at the end of these walks and this one left me with both.

The most inspiring stop was at the Chelsea Hotel http://www.hotelchelsea.com/. I had walked past this building a number of times and had even harbored the vague desire to stay a night or two just to absorb a little ambience, but it's always been out of my price range. Old New Yorkers tell me that the two things that always used to be cheap in this city were hotel rooms and food. Now, it couldn't be further from the truth. It's incredible to think of all the great writers and musicians who lived in the Chelsea Hotel- Bob Dylan, Dylan Thomas, Arthur Miller, William Burroughs, Sid Vicious, etc. It's frigging ridiculous. I skirted the edges of Times Square and passed magnificent stage theaters, including the stage-to-screen adaptation of the Ziegfield Theatre. Despite the indignity of hosting a Keanu Reeves movie at the time, it's still a pretty cool place.

At the other end of the inspiration perspective, I walked up 6th Avenue and couldn't believe the number of high-end, apartment skyscrapers going up. Every block has at least two or three of these beheamoths with floor-to-ceiling windows that take up more square feet than my entire apartment. Who are these people, paying thousands of dollars a month in rent, or 7-figures to buy. I've never felt much envy for ostentatious displays of wealth, but Manhattan vividly illustrates the disparity between the haves and have-nots like no other. At least in L.A. they hide up in the Hollywood Hills.

When I crossed 42nd Street, the changes in the last year were huge. Almost the entire block between 6th and 7th Avenue has been bought up and levelled. Now, there's this tremendous view of Town Hall, but that'll be short-lived. One year and hundred stories later, Bryant Park won't be getting any sunlight. Most New Yorkers I know avoid Times Square like the plague. Any mention of going down there illicits that sucking, grit-teeth display of pain and sympathy. The density of oggling tourists and scammers gives the air that copper-scented tinge of danger. Every shouting match or near-fight that I've had in this city has come in, or near, Times Square. Some hustler inevitably mistakes me for a tourist and tries to fuck with me. My midwestern accent and loping gait must give off the scent of a sucker.

There's something invigorating about walking the streets, though. All that visual stimulation is like washing your entire body with Lava soap. It's abrasive, but it'll wake up parts of you that you'd forgotten were there. This loathsome city has lost more than a little of its romance and she's not shy about giving a good fisting, but somehow you still end up wanting to cuddle with her and join the club that had her and lived to tell the tale.