Comfort Zone

National Review Online, September 7, 2004

So the GOP convention passed off, to use the bland, blinding bureaucratic phraseology, without major incident. There were many arrests, sure, and on the Sunday before a march involving hundreds of thousands of demonstrators, but these are part of the regular theater, or in the case of some of the protests, the pantomime, of American politics in our age of unease and unusual rancor. But the other possibility, the possibility about which we murmured, we whispered, we speculated and in anticipation of which not a few folk fled town, did not, thank God and, I suspect, good security, come to pass.

But the fear, the unease that has never really left, not here, not in this city, since that beautiful, horrible September morning was all too real. How could it not be? There is the dread of the future, triggered by alerts, color-coded warnings and plain commonsense, and then there are the still raw memories of the past, prompted by that hole in the sky at the southern end of our island, or in endless, countless, smaller ways, the postcards that still sell pictures of those two doomed towers, the fire truck I saw parked near Rockefeller Center on Tuesday with its small metal plaque honoring the "brothers of Ladder 4" who died at Ground Zero: Angelini, Brennan, Haub, Lynch, O'Callaghan, Oitice, Tipping, Wooley....

The convention site itself, ugly, clunky Madison Square Garden, and the faded Beaux-Arts Farley building, together with the streets that surrounded them, were a ring-fenced fortress of foreboding, oddly quiet for Manhattan, cut off from the shove and the push of the streets of Midtown by the still makeshift barricades of our savage new era—vast concrete blocks here, a sand-filled city truck there. In part they were designed to ensure that New York City did not suffer a rerun of Chicago 1968, but as with the barriers outside the Central Synagogue on 55th Street, or those that crowd the Vanderbilt entrance to Grand Central Station, there can be no doubt about what or who they were really intended to deter. In time, as extreme Islam's war against the West endures (and George W. Bush is right, it will) such barriers will be prettied up, will be made to blend, will become just another part of our urban and psychological landscape, but for now they are an open scar, yet another reminder of the price our civilization is being made to pay for its survival.

Access to the convention was, like so much else these days, color-coded. Different colored cards gave admission to different parts of the convention complex, to the media center to some, to the floor to others. We strolled through the security zone that enveloped us, cards hanging from our necks, evidence that we all somehow belonged. We had been checked, approved, authorized, our papers were in order. In this, the land of the First Amendment, these portents of a garrison state were a little spooky, and not a little sad, but the far more significant tragedy is that, in this conflict of sneak attack and mass atrocity, they were indeed necessary.

Needless to say, smiling, unsmiling, friendly, withdrawn, beneath their helmets and their caps, New York's Finest were everywhere, pulled, it seemed from every unit the city had to spare, mounted, on foot, in patrol car, on motorbikes, courteous and watchful, checking out those inside the zone, monitoring those outside, and waiting, waiting, waiting.

By night the drama—and the tension—was, quite literally, highlighted by the searchlights of helicopters hovering above and of the klieg lights rooted below. Between them they seemed to illuminate every sinister nook and each questionable cranny. Elsewhere, looking out from the zone, there were signs that life went on as usual. Broadway shone, as it always shines, the high-rises glittered and shimmered as far as one could see. To the east, the Empire State Building, once again, but tragically now, New York's tallest, was bathed in red, white, and blue. The disconcerting sense of normality—of once what was—was emphasized by the white stars and posters of red white and blue bunting that bedecked Macy's, and the cheery flashing sign over the Garden: Welcome delegates!

Some time, it must have been after midnight on Wednesday, there were a few demonstrators out in the streets beyond the zone. Bush is a murderer! Bush is a liar! Bush will kill for oil! Peace now! Three or four ladies, tackily glamorous in showgirl costume, ran by laughing and giggling, cardboard missiles strapped—How should I put this?—in the place where Hedwig still had that angry inch.

Someone shouts expletive-sodden abuse at a delegate, something about blood-spattered hands and Halliburton, but the delegate walks on, oblivious or unconcerned, protected by the cops who are everywhere, many with glow-sticks that cut red swathes through the air as they point where to go. And where not to. Even here, in the vicinity of the zone, but outside it, we are carefully controlled, move along, move along, allowed to cross the streets only at designated points, not here, no sir, not here, and herded behind red plastic netting until it is the moment to cross.

From time to time, large buses swept by, ferrying delegates to their hotels. Behind darkened windows, they could look out. No one could see in. Later came the vice-presidential cavalcade, motorbikes, a couple of limos, police cars, an SUV bristling with odd-looking antennae. I thought I caught a glimpse of Lynne Cheney through a partly opened window. The speeches had gone well, but she was staring out, pensive, a little anxious it seemed.

Back home, I pulled out Theodore White's history of the 1960 campaign for his description of the conventions that year. Here he is with the Democrats: "Through the Biltmore lobby paraded two rival Puerto Rican delegations, with their steel drums and guitars, making music and dancing in Latin costume. Here floated the pretty girls, almost indistinguishable from one another in their official red-white-and-blue-dresses and skimmer hats, soliciting delegates, giggling, jiggling, pinning badges on anyone who lingered...."

That's all gone now. Ancient history. What a shame.

Bowery Bums

National Review Online, August 31, 2004

New York, N.Y.—It was Saturday night. Despite the killjoy sign—"No drugs, weapons or alcohol"—the killjoy heat, the killjoy humidity, the killjoy rabble, and the killjoy location (a church!), I went in through the door. Left-wing agitators, maybe even anarchists, were in town and someone (an assignment our killjoy editor had rather discouragingly told the New York Times was the "short straw") had to keep an eye on them. But, in my Gomorrah, the city I call home, the city of Pinch Sulzberger, Al Sharpton, Susan Sarandon, and the ever-degenerate George Costanza, where to begin?

After detailed research—several minutes at least on the Internet—a meeting hosted by the Reverend Billy and his First Amendment Revival Church & Gospel Choir seemed like a good place to start. The venue, St. Mark's-in-the-Bowery, is often described, ominously, as a center for arts in the East Village, and nothing good, we know, can come from the bohemians who choose to live down there. As for Reverend Billy's topic ("prepare for nonviolent dramatic civil disobedience"), it seemed promisingly, suitably, wickedly subversive. Yes, yes, necessary disclaimer, of course such folks are not part of the Democratic mainstream, but they are, ask Howard Dean, increasingly the source of much of the party's energy, inspiration, and verve.

Needless to say, the sight inside the old church (built, interestingly, on the foundations of the chapel where Peter Stuyvesant once worshiped) was not pretty. But not for the reasons you might think. Blasphemy? It's been done before. Piercings? Who cares? Tattoos? Whatever. The glimpses of post-apocalyptic tailoring? Just local color, normal for the East Village. Worrying about those Mad Max shreds and tatters would make as much sense as going to France and being bothered by berets. Even the occasional, horrifying glimpse of Birkenstock was no great difficulty for me, a veteran of the fashion disaster that was Britain in the 1970s.

No, the problem in that room was the stink of self-righteousness, a smug fug of self-congratulation, stupidity, sanctimony, and bile. Republicans were bad, bad, bad. Ashcroft was evil, and America's rights were under siege. The Patriot Act, hiss, and the Sedition Act, boo, were two centuries apart but one and the same in their iniquity. On the Reverend's word, we raised our hands in the air, each of us clutching a little scrap of paper on which someone had typed that magic, marvelous First Amendment: "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

Fine sentiments indeed, even if I wasn't completely convinced that all those present wanted to allow Republicans their right peaceably to assemble in a city that has, we have been told again and again, no time for them, their opinions, or their yahoo red-state sensibilities.

And as for the blonde-dyed, caustic, sarcastic Reverend Billy, he's a star (see his congregation quiver), a celebrity, a snide counterculture darling, a mall-rat Savonarola, a critic of consumerism, a parodist, a prankster, a preacher—but not, I'm afraid, a parson. Dressing up as a vic is just Billy's shtick, a pantomime pastiche as bogus as his logic is faulty, his politics are ludicrous, and his gospel choir is hot.

But if Billy was silly, he was Reverend Rationality compared with the freak show unfolding in the darkness outside. Making my way through the churchyard, over the flagstones that mark the last resting places of poor David Jones (died 1823) and lucky John Wilson (managed to hang on until 1826), past the bust of an outraged Peter Stuyvesant (if a head made of copper could scream, it would, that evening, have been screaming), past the pile of provisions and cooking utensils being assembled for the drama to come, past downtown Kropotkins and trust-fund communards, past suburban shamans and, rare authenticity, a few genuine Bowery bums, I find a large circle of people gathered around two women, shrill of voice, strident of opinion, silver of face makeup, and, well, confusing of message. These ladies' hopes of "magic action in the streets" were clear enough, sort of, but, as we all turned round and round on their shouted instructions, our hands reaching imploringly for the night sky, the "action in the center of the magic of the web" began to seem very, very murky.

And that was before someone told us that we were trees. Yes we were! The trees were rooted in the energy of the earth. We were rooted in the energy of the earth. Trees had branches. We were branches. We had to feel the energy, or something, from the Earth. The Earth, earth! An element, yes, yes, I got it. At last. Others came later. Fire, two sparklers, fizzing and spitting flame into the center of our circle and then, yes, you guessed it, water, poured and re-poured between two plastic glasses (recyclable, I'm sure). The crowd watched on, impressed, enthralled, captivated. Twelve hours later they would be marching through Manhattan because, you know, George W. Bush is, like, dumb.

The irony, I suspect, would have been lost on them.

Who’s Afraid of the Dark?

National Review Online, August 18, 2003

NEW YORK, NEW YORK — It was a nightmare for commuters, the sick, and for anyone with perishable food to sell. In an age of terrorism, the darkened buildings, stalled, stifling elevators, and idled subway cars were a haunting and, in those first minutes of power failure, terrifying reminder of the vulnerability of a complex technological society to a single well-targeted blow. But, as it turned out, for many in midtown Manhattan the blackout was, let's admit it, really rather fun. As everyone now knows, the power went down shortly after 4 P.M. and, as the sultry summer afternoon drifted into an unusually authentic twilight, it didn't take long before Second Avenue was transformed into a sweaty, raffish playground, Bourbon Street on the East River, bars still open, their interiors only slightly darker than usual, drinkers lit by candlelight, forbidden cigarettes (don't tell Nurse Bloomberg) and one, two, three, four tepid beers, no one was counting.

And on the sidewalks entrepreneurs were quick to set out their wares, bags of ice (for a while), snacks, water, flashlights, and bottles of beer of a vaguely exotic brand, Sapporo, not Bud. Larger stores quickly gave up the struggle, but the bodegas never paused. The usual merchandise — the flowers, the packets of powdered vitamins, the groceries that you always forget to buy, the batteries (yes!), the cigarettes, the fruit, and, decaying even more rapidly than normal, that peculiar unidentifiable meat, was still for sale, all prices rounded up now to the nearest dollar, for cash registers were ancient history, useless relics of a vanished civilization, as dead as an air conditioner, a traffic light, or a refrigerator. Fortunately, the bodegas were made of sterner stuff than their hardware. The next morning, there was still no power but my local — it's run by the sort of Koreans who give Kim Jong Il nightmares — was still open and serving hot coffee, hamburgers, and other unimaginable luxuries. How? A gas stove. No problem. These guys would not shut up shop for the Apocalypse.

But back to Thursday night: As the hours passed, darkening, electric in a very different way, strangers swapped stories on stoops, sidewalks, and street corners, a touch of the old neighborhood in a part of town that never really was one. The men at the parking garage sat around their radio and, CNN for a day, passed on the news to those who wandered by. A fire on the West Side? A disaster in Canada? Lightning? Who knew? When's the power coming back? No idea.

At home we listened to the radio, and tried to make out the picture on, yes (don't ask), our battery-operated TV. No Friends, no Buffy rerun, no E! News Live, just Chuck Scarborough over on a blurry Channel 4. He was doing his best, calm through all the confusion (I read later that he was on for nearly nine hours straight). He was magnificent, our Ed Murrow, the voice of civilization, continuity, and reassurance — or at least he would have been except for the awkward fact that almost no one in the city could actually watch him (the battery-operated TV crowd is a very elite group). Oh well, never mind. On the radio, meanwhile, there was talk, news, gossip, the occasional press conference, speculation, and at one station a DJ with, he said, nothing but "a handheld mike and a CD player." It was enough.

Later, a group of cops patrolled the avenue, Giulianis on Bourbon Street, checking on those who had partied too hard and too long. Here and there, flashlights guided the way and, for the truly desperate, there was always the dim illumination of a cell-phone dial pad. On the side streets it was quieter. There were fewer people, and it was, somehow, darker, but the noisier of the two French bistros on 51st Street was, as always, busy; there was not much food, but plenty of wine; tables full, each with a candle, each with a couple. The candlelight was romantic, but feeble against the darkness — not that anyone seemed to mind.

That August night was a night for candles, their light flickered in the windows of high rises, a hint of the medieval amid Manhattan's concrete and glass, their smoke perfumed the air and added to the haze in the street. The mayor recommended flashlights. Safer, he said, prosaic, I thought. It turned out that Bloomberg was right: Candles were responsible for a number of fires that night, blazes that contributed to the death of one person and, yet again, the serious injury of a fireman doing what firemen do — protecting a city that still remembers the sacrifices of that bright blue September morning.

Up the street from the French were the Japanese. Empowered by a power cut, the usually reserved little sushi place had annexed a spot of sidewalk. Tables were set up with linen, neatly packaged snacks, and a small group of diners. Elegant paper lanterns glowed where streetlights once glared. We walked a little further. One block to the west is where the office buildings really begin to soar. They loomed, still blocking the sky, only more so. In the foreground Third Avenue cut through the gloom, still a mess of traffic: jammed, unmoving, cars, vans, trucks, headlights, noise, and anxiety. Will I get home? Is there enough gas? As for the buildings behind, no longer their usual glittering spectacle, they made for a slightly forbidding backdrop, massive, almost gothic hulks, dark now except for those prudently or neurotically (take your pick) managed few where emergency generators were producing light and, dare to dream, air conditioning.

There would, we knew, have to be enquiries, commissions, and allocations of blame. Fingers would be pointed, lessons would be learned, and precautions would be taken — just like last time. But that was for tomorrow. The night of the great blackout was not a night for recrimination, it was a night for strolling the streets, enjoying our city, and, just like visitors to New York are always said to do, gazing stupidly into the heavens. But we were no hicks. It was not skyscrapers we were staring at, but another, stranger wonder.

The stars.

Sex in the City

National Review Online, December 3, 2002

There's a gift shop at the entrance to New York's new Museum of Sex with "edible body chocolate," "Kama Sutra" oils, nudie pens, and books such as New York Girls, Fetish Girls, Forbidden Erotica, Strip Flips, Peek — Photographs from the Kinsey Institute, The Adventures of Sweet Gwendoline, and Bob Flanagan: Supermasochist — but none of this was enough for one downtown Jezebel, grumpy in Winona black as she gazed idly at pictures of Bob Flanagan's tortured form. "You'd think," she grumbled, "that there would be more here than this. There ought to be, like, you know, toys." After all the foreplay — the carding (no one under 18 allowed), the $17 admission ticket (now there's an obscenity), the bawdy, giggling anticipation, the titillating costume (all visitors are issued with a self-adhesive scarlet "X"), and the come-hither enticement (the museum's advertising features boots, spurs, and a very, very short skirt), was this a first hint that the actual Museum of Sex experience might, well, fall a little flat?

The museum, which opened in October, is located, appropriately enough, near a street corner. It's on 27th and 5th, just to the east of the old "Satan's circus," Manhattan's former Tenderloin district, in a slightly shabby building that may once have known some very shabby times: There's fevered talk that it was used as a brothel. The interior — whitewashed walls, bare floors, and (cathouse chic?) bead curtains — is almost as drab. Perhaps the austerity is designed to emphasize the seriousness of the museum's "mission": "breaking new ground in an area of human life that…museums…have previously treated at best with benign neglect. This… includes the consideration of both high and low sexual culture (in all their endlessly fascinating manifestations)…" High culture? Who cares about that? I was there for the low (in all its endlessly fascinating manifestations). The academic flummery is best seen as a disguise, camouflage for the peepshow, a scholar's gown for those too prim to be seen in a dirty gray raincoat.

But back to that "mission" — according to the museum's publicity materials, its inaugural exhibition, NYC Sex: How New York City Transformed Sex in America is devoted to an investigation of "the sexual subcultures of the city's past and present, and…the means by which they have influenced the development of modern attitudes about sex and sexuality." It's an appropriately narcissistic theme for a perennially self-absorbed city (or, more accurately, borough — the references to queens in this exhibition have nothing to do with Archie Bunker's old stamping ground). It comes with a flattering subtext: Out there in the sticks, the rubes, the birds and the bees were stuck doing it the same old way until those enlightened and sophisticated Manhattan folk started spreading the news.

That said, the first part of the exhibition is dedicated to prostitution, a business that even New Yorkers cannot claim to have invented. On this topic, the museum's main emphasis is on the 19th century: its most beguiling feature an interactive display highlighting extracts from Zagat-style guides to Manhattan's whorehouses, clearly a necessity for anyone wishing to avoid the perils of locales such as 14 Mercer Street, an unsavory joint where "gentlemen are never known to call a second time."

There's more to see than hooker handbooks, of course, not least a mummified penis, a chorus girl's costume, and a skull rotted by syphilis, but the real delight lies not in curios but in absorbing the details of this lost city of sin, a Gomorrah on the Hudson that had, in its downtown "fairy resorts," a suggestion of Sodom too. To be frank, though, this evidence of Victorian vice mainly comes across as a little bland. The passing of time and large amounts of soft sepia coloring mask both its erotic force and the brutality and squalor that must have lain not so far below it. All that remains is surface strangeness, best seen in a 1890s illustration of the Bowery by night, teeming, exotic, and menacing with more than a hint of a Blade Runner streetscape about it.

When the museum's visitors arrive in those sections of the exhibition that deal with the 20th century, improved photographic techniques literally bring the picture, and the reality behind it, into far clearer focus. This is just as well if the show is to hold our attention. Age can lend fascination to the most banal of knick-knacks, but once we reach the modern era there is not much in the way of alluring artifacts for the museum to display. An old tin of Ramses may be vaguely "Egyptian," but it's not exactly the treasure of Tutankhamen. Brave attempts are made: Exhibits include some nasty-looking bondage gear, a poster for the Village People and a 1971 handbook used to instruct the police on how to identify "toilet snipes," but a showcase featuring a forlorn pile of vintage peepshow tokens is a reminder why photography has to be an essential resource for this exhibition.

But, in a museum looking to chronicle behavior at its most intimate, this becomes, paradoxically, a problem. It's simply not that often that couples bring a camera into the bedroom and, unless they are a Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson, it's even more unusual for the rest of us to see the results. Every type of picture can tell a story, but when it comes to recording this area of human conduct, the paintbrush can be more effective than the lens. It's surprising how little art is included in this show. The heavy reliance on photography inevitably shifts the exhibition's balance away from the private sphere to public — or quasi-public — displays of sexuality, primarily pin-ups, pornography, and an orgy or two; interesting enough, but something of a caricature. We are shown more, but, somehow, it feels like less. It is an impression only heightened by a selection of photographs more weighted towards, shall we say, the mechanics of this show's subject matter than its broader social context. This is not history, just a vision of the past reflected in a funhouse mirror.

This doesn't always matter. That part of the exhibition concerned with New York's contribution to 1970s pornography succeeds on its own terms. As porn is never meant to be anything more than dirty pix there is no intimacy to lose. Spectacle is simply replayed as spectacle, and becomes the source of the museum's most entertaining sight — small groups of visitors earnestly clustered around monitors showing continuous loops of disco era smut. As the crowd gawped at the gropers, portable audio guides related the (forgive the phrase) blow-by-blow reminiscences of a star from that time, Vanessa del Rio — the "Latin from Manhattan," reduced, these days, to Brooklyn.

To see how a display lined with photographs can fail as a record of the history of sex, check out the installation devoted to S&M. It is redeemed only by the revelation that the ranks of the spanked received a significant boost from the arrival of refugees from Nazi Germany, a place where sadism was no fantasy. For the most part, however, this segment of the show is, ahem, dominated by pin-ups of the pinioned, the pummeled, and the trussed, posed by professionals and packaged by profiteers. These pictures tell a picaresque tale (the saga of Irving Klaw, bondage entrepreneur, cries out for a Tim Burton movie), but they are far from enlightening. They record not authenticity, but performance. On the other hand, having also glanced at the museum's small, but painful (holy urethra!), sample of the undeniably authentic Mapplethorpe oeuvre, I'm not inclined to complain too much.

When the museum turns its attention to homosexuality, the results are somewhat better. Whether it's in the bleak camera work of Thomas Painter, the Brassai of Manhattan's mid-century gay demimonde, or in plain brown envelope beefcake photos (including one of a naked Yul Brynner — the real shock is his full head of hair) from the 1940s and 1950s, pseudo-exotic, claustrophobic, and vaguely ill at ease, the impact of that era's repression is obvious. Later came the Stonewall riot (visitors can study the Village Voice's remarkable report of that "fairy tale the likes of which the area has never seen") and then the Dionysian 1970s (exhibits include a board game, "Gay Weekend," featuring Scott, Billy, Mark, Glen, Terry, Ritchie, a beach, a bar, and a truck stop). Inevitably, there's also an installation designed to describe the horror of the plague years that followed.

What we are never really shown is the gradual acceptance of gays into "respectable" society, an omission typical of an exhibition that consistently confuses the extreme with the cutting edge, and also tends to neglect the mainstream by much more than the show's stated purpose would suggest. That's a distortion of the historical record even for supposedly go-ahead Gotham, and it has another disadvantage. The exaggerated emphasis on the far out, and the touch of Coney Island that it brings to this exhibition, reinforces the sense of alienation and emotional distance already implicit in viewing images of other people's sex lives. For all the low culture thrills, I left the museum lost in mild, but oddly persistent melancholy.

Post-coital depression by proxy? I doubt it. Intriguing, prurient and more than a little kitsch, the Museum of Sex is certainly worth trying but you won't need a cigarette afterwards.

Loud and Clear

National Review Online, June 16, 2000

The ‘wolf pack’ attacks in Central Park were a disgrace. The reaction to them — an unappetizing blend of ethnic politics and PC posturing — has not been much better, evidence of a mindset that, if it didn't exactly cause last Sunday's nightmare, certainly paved the way for it. Key to it is the idea that the police are always in the wrong. If they make an arrest they've gone in too hard, probably, it will be alleged, from racist motives. Any mistake will bring vilification, maybe prosecution, and certainly Al Sharpton. As for the cops involved in the Diallo tragedy, their bonus was pre-trial condemnation as murderers by the First Lady of the United States.

If, on the other hand, the police do nothing, they are also to blame. They are lazy bums, we will be told, more interested in their next doughnut than helping the public. And this, of course, became the spin on Central Park. Leftist lawyer Ron Kuby, a newcomer to the law-and-order crowd, worried that the police may have been sitting 'on their fat butts' rather than doing their jobs. Ah, what sweet liberal relief.

Awkward questions over the Puerto Rican parade could be glossed over as the media turned on an easier target — the police. The story became not what the bad boys did do, but what the NYPD didn't do, the "Cop Out" as the Daily News put it. Inevitably, Reverend Al caught the mood, appearing as an adviser to two of the victims in a $5,000,000 lawsuit against, not, naturally, the assailants, but the city.

Of course, much of the criticism was unfair. Rudy Giuliani's claim that 2,500 bottles of beer had been confiscated may have had the ring of desperation about it, but most cops did a good job. Also, it must be remembered that it's not easy to see what's going on in the middle of a huge crowd. Spotted from a couple of hundred yards away wilding can all too easily be mistaken for high jinks, spring-break fun, rather than feral nastiness.

Besides, if the police had moved in and acted pre-emptively, what would have been recorded by all those amateur video cameramen in the park? Not women, naked, humiliated, and in tears, but white cops pushing their way through a minority crowd, and I think we know how the evening news would have played that story. Somebody else would have sued for $5,000,000. The police explanation that the mob was about to get out of control would have been rejected, as being based on derogatory, racist assumptions.

Mind you, it appears that, on this occasion there is something to the criticism: Too many of the police were those crucial couple of hundred yards away, at the perimeter rather than in the action. Police treatment of some of the victims also left much to be desired and added to reports of crowd control that seemed strangely detached, "lackadaisical" in the words of one witness. A disturbing number of New York's Finest just did not want to get involved. In short, NYPD blew it, and if you believe the conspiracy theorists, they did so, because they were told to.

This has been denied, and believably so. There was no need: The police are getting the message. Why take that risk, why go down that darkened alley, when your only reward is Geraldo to Couric to Rosie criticism on the TV? The constant agitation is taking its toll. Cheap shots at the police claim more victims than just the boys in blue. It's no coincidence that Big Apple crime figures are on the rise, and not only in Central Park. Across the Atlantic the Brits have gone down the same anti-police route, culminating in the publication of an official report of absurd political correctness. The consequences? Street crime in London is running at twice last year's levels.

And if there was a day for a cowed New York police force to be careful, restrained and low profile it was last Sunday. At the National Puerto Rican Day Parade there can be no room for anything that could be remotely interpreted as a Sipowicz moment. Ethnic parades are a weird phenomenon, more Serbia than Central Park, yet they are the principal symbols of New York's ruling ideology, the "glorious mosaic" of former mayor David Dinkins, a vision of racial harmony best represented by that old Coke commercial ("I'd like to teach the world to sing"). In reality, of course, such a view is not the real thing. So the police normally take a pretty tough line with parades, confiscating drinks, lining the streets, and generally delivering a message of zero tolerance. Just ask the folks on St. Patrick's Day.

But there wasn't enough of that last Sunday. Zero tolerance was, at times, replaced with anything goes. Revelers may have been 2,500 bottles short, but as one onlooker explained, "alcohol was all over the place." It wasn't supposed to be that way, but then with the Puerto Rican Day parade it rarely is. For the authorities want us to believe that this parade is the jewel in the mosaic, "an annual celebration", as Hillary's website puts it, "of Puerto Rican culture, music and ethnic pride," a happy and enjoyable day for all. In reality, as is inevitable with almost any large gathering, the picture is more tricky than that. Mentioning that fact beyond, perhaps, a coy reference to "exuberance," is not part of the liberal script. It was fascinating to see that, as the first serious reports of trouble emerged, New York politicians were quick to defend the parade. There had been problems, certainly, but they couldn't be allowed to get in the way of the greater 'truth' that they wanted us to hear. The day had been a success, they soothed in the tone of voice that they would have used to tell Mrs. Lincoln that, yes indeed, the play had been a smash.

And sadly, the police had learned their lines too well.

Andy, Get Your Gun

National Review, February 21, 2000

I DIDN'T want to be Bernie Goetz. I just wanted a handgun. Legally. Something to keep at home. A move within Manhattan had taken me away from the comforts of doorman security (you know how it is). A little extra protection seemed prudent, 911 calls can take a while to answer, and Rudy isn't going to be mayor forever. Should be pretty straightforward, I thought. In my native Britain it would be impossible. But this is the United States, home of the Second Amendment, land of liberty. Government knows its place. They do things differently in America. But then there's New York City, a place where the old constitutional certainties have been replaced by the rules of the NYPD, License Division. If you believe that this is a local problem, a Big Apple nightmare that could never apply to you, think again, A dozen states already insist on handgun permits. Citing as always "the children," it is clear that Candidates Gore and Bradley want to expand on this at the federal level. The Brady Act was not enough. There's earnest talk of licensing, registration, additional checks to which, allegedly, only the unreasonable could object.

But the unreasonable have a point. New York City's licensing system has turned a right into a privilege. Like all privileges, it's enjoyed only by the few. There may be more than 7 million people in the five boroughs, but only 40,000 have valid handgun permits. Licensing isn't the thin end. It is the wedge. If you want to find out what that modest-sounding licensing requirement can mean in the hands of a bureaucracy that doesn't want you to have a handgun, come here, to the City.

It starts with a form, of course—PD 643-041 (Rev. 1-94) h1. Some of the questions are obvious (arrest record and, excitingly, "aliases"). Others are odd ("Have you ever been denied appointment in a civil service system?") or, seemingly, aimed at members of the Clinton administration (list any incidents of "Temporary Loss of Memory"). Watch out for question 19: "Have you ever had or applied for any type of license or permit issued to you by any City, State or Federal agency?" You haven't? Well, if you are a driver you have. Forget to mention your driver's license and you will be rejected and have to start all over again.

Next, submit the form. This, naturally, can be done only in one place, and in person: Room 110 at Police Headquarters, Manhattan. Nowhere else will do—not Room 109, and certainly not Room 111 Anywhere in Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, or the Bronx is out of the question (although Queens—and nowhere else— is where you must go for your rifle or shotgun permit). The form needs supporting documentation: yes, including that driver's license. It is not enough, however, merely to present your driver's license. A notarized statement certifying that you did indeed apply for that driver's license is also essential. The fact that your photograph and signature are on the license is irrelevant. No notary, and it's no go.

It's at this point that capitalism comes to the rescue. Even in New York. There is no need to struggle through this process alone. A small industry of license consultants has sprung up. Some, doubtless, add little value, but the repeated official warnings against them are very reminiscent of something chat might have come from a pre-Miranda cop explaining that, no, no, you really don't need that fancy lawyer. I opted for the pistol-consultant equivalent ($395 all-in) of a fancy lawyer, Larry Goodson of License Services, "Specialists in Firearms Licensing, Training, Selection and Safety," an outfit in Queens. We never met. Like Charlie in Charlie's Angels, he was a mysterious voice over the phone. I imagined him as one of those drill sergeants in an old war movie, dispensing the gruff advice that would see his rookies through their grueling ordeal. Much of which, we know, would consist of waiting for that encounter with destiny.

Which can take a while. There aren't many gun-license applications each year (between one and two thousand), but when it comes to processing them, the city that never sleeps, dozes off. The applicant just has to wait, hoping that his home can be a castle even without a cannon. And if the Grandson of Sam came crashing through the door? Well, a friend of mine recently managed to frighten away an intruder from his apartment, but he had a loud voice, a sand wedge, and, crucially, a cowardly burglar. Would I be so lucky? A lifetime of avoiding hand-to-hand combat would mean that any brawl would be likely to turn out badly. The only weapons in my place were kitchen utensils, a Swiss Army knife, and, perhaps, a very heavy book.

The weeks passed, safely, but without any word from Police Headquarters. Finally, after five months, a letter arrived. I had to contact the License Division within "five days of receipt" to fix up an interview in, you guessed it. Room 110. "Failure to respond and/or comply with this notice will result in disapproval of your application." Away on vacation? That, probably, would be too bad. Do not pass Go, do not collect handgun.

The interview is to be taken seriously. This is not just a quick check for drool on the chin or blood on the hands. The police want to be sure that the would-be gun owner knows the law, and they might, warned pistol consultant Larry, try to trip me up. Try they did. The interviewing officer was courteous, friendly even, but it didn't stop him from asking whether I would be taking my gun to the target range every weekend once I received my premises residence license (with target endorsement). It was a trick. As, fortunately, I remembered, holders of such permits can take their guns to the range only twice a month (unloaded, in a locked box). At the end of the interview, there is little clue as to how you have done ("That's to avoid incidents," explained Larry). Next, two more officers have to review the case.

Which they did for another three months. Then, finally, the great day arrived, if not the permit. I had been approved, but the permit has to be picked up in person at Police Headquarters in, for variety, Room 152. Neglect to claim the permit within 30 days and it will he canceled, and the applicant is back to square one, Room 110. With the permit comes a handgun-purchase authorization. This entitles the holder to purchase a gun from another licensee, a licensed dealer, a policeman, or, so long as the deceased held a valid license, a corpse. Fail to buy a gun within 30 days, and the authorization is canceled, along with the pistol license that it took eight months to obtain.

Finding somewhere to buy a gun legally in Manhattan is not much less challenging than looking for a liquor store in Saudi Arabia. Early negotiations with a fellow called "Chop" in a Midtown outlet didn't work out, but a trip to New York Ironworks hit, so to speak, the target. It's a store where the NYPD crowd goes to buy weapons, extra equipment, and fashion essentials such as "Frisk 'Em" gloves. It is also just around the comer from Police Headquarters, which matters, because that is where, for the fourth time in this process, the new gun owner has to return. Within 72 hours and packing heat (so long as the heat is unloaded and in a locked box). It's a quick pass through the metal detectors (yes, they do work) and then back to Room 152 (so long as it's Monday to Friday, between the hours of noon and 2 P.M.). The pistol will be poked and prodded, and the bill of sale perused. Survive this and the process is complete. The gun can be kept at home. So there it sits, gripped by its newly mandatory trigger lock, a last line of defense.

For the time being anyway. The pistol license, of course, is issued subject to certain conditions. And the first of these, listed right at the top of the Police Department's little handbook for licensees? The license "is revocable at any time."