East Village memoirs
I arrived at an important decision in my life a few weeks ago.
When I first landed the job I have now I was overjoyed. I’m making now what I was hoping for at 40. Money is awesome. I’m not rich by any means, and considering that I’m paying rent, I’m only so much better off than I would be in the long-term than where I was before this job. What I like best about this job is that it gives me the City, and the City is great. I cannot stress that enough. Granted it is not what it could be-there’s a whole lotta government goin’ on here, enough to sicken me daily. Nothing, however, can take away from the people here. I’ve never been to a place whose majority of inhabitants have only lived here for a short while. It’s a life hotel. People come here for a while, enjoy their stay, and move on with their lives. This hotel, however, is not about a vacation or relaxation. You come to this hotel to work. Between tourists and the bridge & tunnel commuters/weekenders, the City might be comprised of mostly outsiders. But those who live here, those you see regularly, so many of them came here for a purpose. This place is too expensive to come for just a good time. I don’t care what your financial situation is nor about your spending habits. Whatever way you examine it, the City is more expensive than your alternative. You don’t have to live here to work here. Plenty of people commute from the Boroughs, Jersey, Westchester, the Island, and even Connecticut. This is like Rome, though our royal grandeur and awe is earned or passed on by someone who earned it.
I am not among the royalty simply because I live here. I am “just a renter” as some would tell you (for instance Nadja’s mother’s friend who didn’t like me because she wanted her to marry her son but Nadja didn’t want to and was more interested in some financial planner in Jersey). But ownership is not prerequisite to membership. I’m half way through 740 Park [Avenue], the subtitle to which reads “The Story of the World’s Richest Apartment Building”. John D. Rockefeller (the son of the guy who did something) rented for years. Paying rent isn’t the issue. The issue is that coming here has taught me that I haven’t done a god damn thing worth crowing about yet. I ain’t shit, yet. I thought I was all that and a bag of chips because I’m playing for the Ohio State of my industry (mutual funds, not the broader financial services). There are people here who make so much money and have so much non-governmental power, that their servants wouldn’t take the time to piss on me. There are whole neighborhoods of them. That’s a dream I don’t even jerk off to. What do I ogle though, is the Corinthian on 1st Avenue & 38th Street. That’s Midtown, but we’re not talking the better part of Midtown by any means. 1st Avenue for Christ’s sake. It’s a 10-15 minute walk from the green line! I figure to live in that dump, it must run $3m for a two bedroom if condo. $2.5 if co-op. One building I looked into in the residential portion of the Financial District is somewhere I wouldn’t hate you for making me live in goes for $4,000 for a nice-sized (for Manhattan) single. It’s so quiet in that area. It’s like living in the burbs, and it’s literally 3 minutes walking from work. And of course my personal favorite is on the south side of East 9th Street, between Broadway and University Place. I don’t know the name of it. I don’t care. There is parking below the building. There is a large and long canope such that if it’s pouring out, you can stay outside under it and hang out. Every apartment has a balcony the size of my apartment in Jersey overlooking the quiet street. It’s in the northern part of Greenwich Village. I want it. I have to have it. I want in to this place. I want to be a part of this greatness. I don’t give a fuck about keeping up with the Joneses. What I care about is working up to the Knickerbockers. All I am doing now is staying in the hotel.
All this led me to a decision.
To be continued...
When I first landed the job I have now I was overjoyed. I’m making now what I was hoping for at 40. Money is awesome. I’m not rich by any means, and considering that I’m paying rent, I’m only so much better off than I would be in the long-term than where I was before this job. What I like best about this job is that it gives me the City, and the City is great. I cannot stress that enough. Granted it is not what it could be-there’s a whole lotta government goin’ on here, enough to sicken me daily. Nothing, however, can take away from the people here. I’ve never been to a place whose majority of inhabitants have only lived here for a short while. It’s a life hotel. People come here for a while, enjoy their stay, and move on with their lives. This hotel, however, is not about a vacation or relaxation. You come to this hotel to work. Between tourists and the bridge & tunnel commuters/weekenders, the City might be comprised of mostly outsiders. But those who live here, those you see regularly, so many of them came here for a purpose. This place is too expensive to come for just a good time. I don’t care what your financial situation is nor about your spending habits. Whatever way you examine it, the City is more expensive than your alternative. You don’t have to live here to work here. Plenty of people commute from the Boroughs, Jersey, Westchester, the Island, and even Connecticut. This is like Rome, though our royal grandeur and awe is earned or passed on by someone who earned it.
I am not among the royalty simply because I live here. I am “just a renter” as some would tell you (for instance Nadja’s mother’s friend who didn’t like me because she wanted her to marry her son but Nadja didn’t want to and was more interested in some financial planner in Jersey). But ownership is not prerequisite to membership. I’m half way through 740 Park [Avenue], the subtitle to which reads “The Story of the World’s Richest Apartment Building”. John D. Rockefeller (the son of the guy who did something) rented for years. Paying rent isn’t the issue. The issue is that coming here has taught me that I haven’t done a god damn thing worth crowing about yet. I ain’t shit, yet. I thought I was all that and a bag of chips because I’m playing for the Ohio State of my industry (mutual funds, not the broader financial services). There are people here who make so much money and have so much non-governmental power, that their servants wouldn’t take the time to piss on me. There are whole neighborhoods of them. That’s a dream I don’t even jerk off to. What do I ogle though, is the Corinthian on 1st Avenue & 38th Street. That’s Midtown, but we’re not talking the better part of Midtown by any means. 1st Avenue for Christ’s sake. It’s a 10-15 minute walk from the green line! I figure to live in that dump, it must run $3m for a two bedroom if condo. $2.5 if co-op. One building I looked into in the residential portion of the Financial District is somewhere I wouldn’t hate you for making me live in goes for $4,000 for a nice-sized (for Manhattan) single. It’s so quiet in that area. It’s like living in the burbs, and it’s literally 3 minutes walking from work. And of course my personal favorite is on the south side of East 9th Street, between Broadway and University Place. I don’t know the name of it. I don’t care. There is parking below the building. There is a large and long canope such that if it’s pouring out, you can stay outside under it and hang out. Every apartment has a balcony the size of my apartment in Jersey overlooking the quiet street. It’s in the northern part of Greenwich Village. I want it. I have to have it. I want in to this place. I want to be a part of this greatness. I don’t give a fuck about keeping up with the Joneses. What I care about is working up to the Knickerbockers. All I am doing now is staying in the hotel.
All this led me to a decision.
To be continued...