New York is committing glamorous suicide. Poetry is left for the literary cafes of Manhattan, where people with double surnames explain that now, this time, urban socialism will work. Totally. The Bronx looks at all this with a mix of resignation and laughter. The boys from Williamsburg, with defined beards and vintage bicycles, cry with emotion. From Staten Island, silence and rosaries. And that, dear friends, is unforgivable. It's not a revolution, it's a revolutionary aesthetic with vegan delivery and modern typography. Sad, painful, and pathetic but… very on brand. New York doesn't fall. First, you look at the market, study the rates, call the lawyer, and negotiate an elegant exit with an annual bonus included. Because those who militate for the community paradise don't travel beyond 96th Street, except to go to an alternative show at the Apollo and tweet about 'real culture'. From real estate agency offices, discreet toasts: a little chaos always helps to buy cheap. So the city that invented luxury capitalism decides to flirt with glamorous socialism. And of course, they voted for the guy who promises free buses, frozen rent, and urban justice packaged as Brooklyn Flea Market merchandise. New York, the city that invented the ego, the dollar, the salmon bagel, and militant political correctness, has decided to shoot itself in the foot with the delicacy of a mobster throwing a body into the East River. They celebrate it as if Sinatra were reincarnated, but with a Columbia speech and a 'Tax the Rich' t-shirt in a SoHo boutique. The Big Apple, which used to bite, is now doing a kale detox with revolutionary pretensions. From the NYPD, a jaw clench. Because the city that survived Giuliani, Bloomberg, pandemics, and millionaire rappers with electric cars now succumbs to the epic of progressive voluntarism. They talk about 'transforming the system' while queuing at Katz’s Deli, paying 28 dollars for a sandwich because the revolution is better enjoyed with premium pastrami. They love to see the people stumble. They have shares in companies that get rich from chaos. From Queens, the novelty is applauded. 'We've seen this before,' they say, while drinking martinis in a bar that has existed since Manhattan was sensible. That said, no one is leaving today. A selfie with the abyss. How creative. The older folks on the Upper East Side, old-timers who have lived through wars, crises, Thatcher, Reagan, 9/11, and the Kardashian era, observe the scene with a smirky smile. Progressive, young, cool socialist, almost straight out of a university catalog. Harlem, meanwhile, plays jazz and thinks: 'another progressive experiment. A fashionable suicide, with a view of the Hudson and a soundtrack of Jay-Z remixed with a university assembly speech. New York was always excess. His name is Mamdani. They don't know whether to celebrate or book a flight to Los Angeles, where progressive decadence is already a tradition and not a novelty. Wall Street, always pragmatic, is already googling 'm2 cost Brickell vs Upper East Side'. Now it adds naivety. They are sharks, not poets. They elected a mayor. Energy, ambition, neurosis, speed.
