Wish You Were Somewhere

There are maybe ten places in New York City that are truly extraordinary, places that bear no copy anywhere else in America. Tourists will come in big cheesy throngs to amble clumsily around the great neon vagina of Times Square. Maybe they will see a show. Maybe they will go downtown and scope the village for some fancy New York cuisine, check out some restaurant featured on the Food Network. A younger tourist set may want to check out St. Marks Place, get some dorky tattoo, look at the shoes inside Trash and Vaudeville, and, depending on the wisdom of taste, leave with or without a set of day glow platforms. On a sultry summer’s dusk, a tourist couple will go to Washington Square Park, buy a falafel, talk endlessly of the moment’s novelty, how New York is so different from whatever Podunk they came from.

But after all the light brite Times Square broo ha ha, the officious fashion show posturing, the ultra haute cuisine, the post post modern kitsch factories, after all the glossy postcard debris, the souvenirs of servility, the nice parts of New York are just a series of overpriced tourist traps. The rest of New York is a slum, and that slum looks the same whether you’re in Brooklyn, Queens, The Bronx, or any of the non-rich parts of Manhattan. Staten Island is one possible exception in landscape, but don’t get too excited. Staten Island is still a slum, but with rolling fields!

Now to the people who live in the sprawling homogeneity of the New York slum there is of course more than meets the eye. Seasoned New York residents can tell you anything you need to know about where to do laundry, where to get good oxtail, where to stand during the parade, who’s a crook, who’s a saint, when to stop, when to cross, and just who that homeless guy might have been years ago when he wasn’t so crazy. Slum life is packed with riches, just not the kind that affords a way out of the slum. Though, to leave the slum is to leave New York. Beyond the slum is a cultural microcosm, a minority of wealth so particular in its exclusivity, its breadth of privilege and extravagance, that it is marvelous to think that these few and precious Eloi have yet escaped being devoured by the legion of slum-dwelling Morlocks beneath them.

In any case, meanwhile, and in other news, far enough away from New York, within the hilly exurbs of Northeast Pennsylvania are signs for a resort getaway called Memorytown, USA. Wouldn’t it be nice, I think, to go to Memorytown, knowing it’s a not a “town” or county or village or zone, nothing more than a fanciful evocation. I think, wouldn’t it be nice to visit Memorytown? Learn everything about Memorytown? Shake hands with the mayor of Memorytown? The mayor, I think, and smile, and think of my friend Zeke, an out of work accidental father at twenty six, living uncomfortably with his parents, anxiously trying to produce music in his basement bedroom, forever mindful of the sound volume.

I interview Zeke in the front seat of dad’s Civic and ask him what it’s like to be mayor of Babytown. I ask him what he thinks of the music scene in Stroudsburg. I ask him what he thinks of New York, would he raise his baby there. I ask him about his goals, what he wants, all of his answers I could recite in sync with his mouth. I tell him I that I originally planned to go to Memorytown, that I would have gone to the Tavern with a bouquet of flowers because strangers trust a man with flowers, and so armed with my flower mystique I would have asked the bartender congenial questions about the history of Memorytown, drinking gin and tonics, becoming ever more congenial, and calling it a night. Zeke smiles his dim, stoner smile and redirects my gaze back to him. He thinks he’s heard of Memorytown, might have seen signs for it, but he can’t be certain.

The back of this postcard gives this description:

Here at Memorytown, U.S.A., Mt. Pocono, Penna., home of the Hex Shop, Memorytown Motor Lodge, Paradise Valley Lodge . . . and the Country Store and General Emporium – where things are as they use to be . . . the honor of the house is hospitality . . . Open all year . . . featuring the nicest in old-fashioned candies, preserves, pickles, pretzels, rag rugs, hats, handbags, jugs, battles, toys, soap, candies, and a million other interesting items. . .

Memorytown is tucked in the woods, not even ten miles from the plush Mount Airy Resort and Casino. Far away from the rug of New York slums, though. Far away from the glass spires of privilege. Far. Away…