the revolution will not be rent-controlled.
let me tell you something about something. let me tell you something about the revolution. it starts with this, my friends. and here is how events will unfold.
the upper-crust, the creme-de-la-creme, they are going to lose their doormen. poor little rich people, you say. poor little rich people indeed! do you know what will happen? can you see it?
these poor little rich people! pity them. they do not kill their own scampering cockroaches. they do not sort through yards of junk mail. they do not jimmyrig toilet handles. they do not take out their own trash, oh no. in fact, they don’t even know where to take the trash. they do not hail their own taxis. they do not jiggle their own fuse boxes. no, no. they don’t do any of these things. their doormen do.
do you know what will happen to the streets of manhattan gentle readers? oh yes. the change will be subtle at first. a gentleman in an armani suit with a banana peel stuck to his heel. a woman wearing manolos, standing in a hardware store, asking what in the sam hell a wrench does. whole cocktail parties of swanky folk, standing in the darkness of an upper east side loft while two or three “men” discuss the mythology of the location of the mysterious fuse box. women getting sprayed by rainwater as they pathetically hail their own taxis, dainty limp wrists dangling desperately.
for, of course, this breed of beautiful people – porcelain, bejeweled people with haunty, uniformed doormen – they are not like us savvy street people. oh no. they do not know to jump back from a rainy curb when your coveted taxi cab screeches up to you! they are the glamorous, the flawless, the wads of cold green cash sashaying down fifth avenue. but this is their little secret, isn’t it – they cannot find their fuse box. they do not know the proper double-bagging technique that will save them the ignomy of trash breaking over their feet like an army of infection storming a beach. they do not know, these beautiful people, what to do in that horrible moment when the toilet will not flush. why? because of the doormen, of course!
and then the change will be noticeable, on the streets. who will be sashaying down the bowery with a sense of style? who will own manhattan? why, the stylishly downtrodden masses, of course! the savvy street people who have long taken out their own trash. and jimmied our own toilets. the wired peons, who have always trudged ten blocks through five feet of snow to get to the subway because hailing a cab is reserved for drunken nights and mad hospital dashes. we will saunter past their cafes on the west side, where they sit. and instead of discussing whether or not Geoffrey Zackarian’s new restaurant is as delish as his old one … they will be discussing toilets! and trash! and sorting your mail from your vicious neighbors! and taking in your own dry cleaning!
and the savvy masses, on our way to grey’s papaya, we will chuckle a little at their rumpled demeanor and their shocked, rude awakenings. we will say to each other, “well, i’ve always known where my fuse box is.”
and we will have won a tiny, tiny victory in the revolution that is new york.
this should be taken lightly. if you have a doorman and you’re outraged at either me, or your doorman, you’re not paying attention.

Advertisement