I used to call them, “the velvet ropes,” and regard people like this as the lucky ones. I regarded people like this as the fortunate and the pretty people who seemed to get by on their looks.
I resented them as well. Or more,
I suppose I wished i was more like them.
Desired. Regarded.
Alive and well in the fashions of New York City.
I suppose the background for the “velvet ropes” title came to me when I was a younger man.
I saw them all, the pretty and the so-called elite.
I remember standing outside and waiting in lines to get into some of the city clubs—and there they were.
They were the beautiful people.
And I always wanted to be beautiful too.
But I wasn’t ‘them, so-to-speak.
No waiting in line.
No standing around with the rest of us so-called peasants or the average and everyday normal people.
No, the “velvet ropes” had their way.
They were the kings and queens, princes and the princesses of the social world.
And to me, I saw myself as struggling to be average, at best.
The “velvet ropes” were the people who walked up to the front of the line and approached to the roped-off section, which was squared by red, velvet ropes. This was like the entryway to the sexual and wild kingdoms of NYC.
They’d approach the red ropes that were connected to golden stanchions, and with no issue or hassle, one of the bouncers would open and unclasp one of the velvet ropes.
I swear, this was like one of the guards at the castle to allow the so-called royals their access.
But I was never royal.
Not even close.
At least not until I learned the values of different kingdoms.
I was younger then. I was trying to find myself, or trying to learn where I could fit —and where I didn’t.
I suppose my love affair with the city was not always fair or mutual at first. At the same time, I suppose this is life when living a forced or contrived way. This is what life is like when you are trying to be like someone or everyone else.
No real class or culture.
Nothing about this is unique, but instead, I see this as form-fitting and chasing trends without the dignity of being your own authentic self.
I suppose my best efforts to see the city came when I learned to break away. This happened when I chose to see things on my own.
I have seen her in all her glory. My city.
My heart. My Mothering love who guided me and yet, I never showed her to anyone,
at least not like this.
Or not up until now.
I have seen her at all hours of the night or during the daytime. I have been uptown and downtown.
I have walked her streets and felt her secret understanding to which, I agree and understand.
It took years, but I eventually understood.
There will always be the elite and there will always be elitism.
But, fuck them and their invisible flaw and fuck the debutantes and their plastic smiles.
I learned that the company we keep is everything. And I learned this from people whose sarcasm was their first language. I learned what acceptance means from people who, admittedly, I would have never accepted them in my life until one day, I learned that I had lent myself to the social snobbery, which i hated and cursed.
So what did that make me, aside from being a hypocrite?
I can tell you what the city has done for me.
She showed me the different classes and the different places.
She showed me the different levels of status, —and, too, the city showed me there are people who exist at an unafraid level. Brave as can be.
They are brave as ever because they are unafraid to live and breathe or to act and think and be exactly who they are.
I admire them.
I have been on rooftops. I have been to black-tie events. And I have danced with the rich. Yes, I have.
But I have also danced with the poor, who I found to be wealthier in different ways.
I remember one of the first nights I decided to ditch my crowd. I walked away from my friends. But more, I walked away from the elitist bullshit or the assumed bourgeois nonsense. I walked away from all that was attached to the superficial or the materialistic name-brand snobs.
I was Downtown, perhaps somewhere near where Frank O’Hara lived — and I thought about Jim Carroll and how he wrote poetry and spoke from the soul.
I always wanted to be like him.
Or rather then be the next Jim Carroll, I wanted to learn how to be the first Ben Kimmel.
To be honest, I was never brave enough to dare the world and be myself.
I always had to fit a mold or be like the crowd.
But this was “the thing.”
There was no crowd and there was no mold.
No, it was like what Jim Carroll wrote in one of his poems.
“The City is on my side.”
I found myself walking down below 14th Street.
I found myself in places like walking along The Hudson River after midnight.
The river flowed quickly with a surface that looked like black and rippled glass that held the reflection of a full moon in midwinter.
Everything was crisp and there was no one around to impress or to fail myself to some kind of comparison.
I was free.
I suppose the freest thing someone can do for themselves is break away.
We should all do this whenever possible.
We should all go, be, do, or embark on a journey and learn how to be ourselves.
I spend much of my time Downtown now.
I see the changes in my city.
I pass the memorials and honor my fallen friends who went down with The Towers on September 11th.
It’s been a while since I walked Central Park though.
It’s been too long since I visited the museums or played hooky from work and ran the streets like a kid.
I’d love to do this with you.
You know?
To run, as in be eager to be crazy and happy to find a hotdog cart — and I mean one of the original ones with the so-called “dirty water dogs,” with mustard, ketchup, and sauerkraut.
I remember the sight of my crazy times.
I remember the long-legged women who worked the night while dressed in next-to-nothing.
I remember the time I exited one of the theaters from an off-Broadway play.
I wondered what it would be like to write my own play and see my character perform on a stage—and make my dream come to life.
I used to break away and try to see things by myself. I used to do this for myself until I grew to an improved age.
And now?
Now I realized that it wasn’t about the crowd I broke away from. No, it was about the way I interacted and how my company managed to dictate the way I thought or saw things.
But not anymore.
I don’t feel the need to perfect my sarcasm or find laughs at someone else’s expense.
I don’t care about the velvet ropes anymore,
at least not so much.
I have seen the world as far as I am concerned, and I did it all, right here in the heart and playgrounds of New York City.
When you find the right person or the right people to be with, you start to understand the value of what it means to be yourself.
Never waste time with anyone who makes you think otherwise.
If I am to be clear, then I have to clear away the distractions from my vision.
I have to remove all the limitations that keep me from being me.
I wish I could share a day with you in the city.
Maybe we could be like tourists and go see The Intrepid.
Maybe we could head down to Alphabet City.
But, I must admit it.
Avenue A doesn’t look the same anymore.
Stingy LuLu’s is long gone on St Marks.
Not much looks the same these days,
but then again, neither do I, nor do I pay attention to the red, velvet ropes or the stanchions that house the pretty ones or the elitists.
I don’t look the way I used to.
I took out the silver hooped earrings in my left ear and cut my long hair as well as my ties to the needs of my youth. I cut them off a long time ago.
I like to show this to her too, And by her, I mean “my city.”
In fact, I’d show you off to the world if I could.
Just give me the chance.
And don’t worry.
We could walk proudly and without any secrets because believe me when I tell you, this prince still has his throne. It has changed over the years and its remnants are scattered in the different parts of New York City — but I know that no matter where I am, or how old I grow, I know Jim Carroll was right.
Trust me.
The city is on my side.
She showed me not to be afraid.
I just wish I could show this off and share more of her
(with you).
The Written Addiction 