Jim Ryan, lives in New York City Updated Dec 26, 2016
"Simple: we know him. We’ve watched his low-class act for too long. We scanned his soul with our hard-won schmuck radar and he’s failed—repeatedly.
One of the formative experiences of moving to New York is, or at least used to be, finding yourself prey for bad people with good lines of talk. The guy who tried and sell you dubiously authentic drugs in Washington Square park, the 3-card monte operators on 14th Street, the street-calloused sexual predators who flocked around the NYU dorms every September hoping to scam some dewy Iowa-born freshman girl into a blowjob—they are all part of New York’s venerable
Ganef/
Rube ecosystem. If you survive this hazing, you learn to profile every potential perp, con artist and time-waster as a human type:
Homo Schmuckius or
Homo Griftus respectively. In this schema, Trump is the human equivalent of those counterfeit Rolex watches they try and sell you on Canal Street: glitzy on the outside, cheap and defective on the inside.
Trump’s type is the gilded real estate developer. He’s the crass, money-obsessed but aesthetically oblivious type that makes even mobsters roll their eyes. I once heard a pair of Russian mob heavies in the Wall Street
Banya say of this kind of operator, “that guy would drop a ceiling in the Sistine Chapel.” They were showing the contempt of thuggish hustlers for a guy who doesn’t know he’s a thuggish hustler, and doesn’t even know that there’s anything better to which a human being can aspire.
It’s Donald Trump’s lack of higher aspiration, or even pretension to higher things that depresses us so much. In a city that is essentially a shiv-shaped machine for turning base desire into big money, we’re no strangers to people who made fortunes in unseemly ways, but the alchemy of New York has also always been about transforming tawdry fortunes into high culture.
Those sublime Vermeers in the [industrialist, Henry Clay] Frick Museum? They were bought with the corpses of strikers at the
Homestead Steel Works. That Venetian-themed mansion on Fifth Avenue? It was built on the proceeds of defective shoes tormenting the feet of Union soldiers at Gettysburg and Chickamauga. Claus Von Bulow had the distinction of seeing his name on the cover of the New York Post for his wife's murder AND on the marble plaque inside the Metropolitan Museum for his generous donations. The olympian Astors and their many gifts to high culture? Both sprung from the smelly, mercury-poisoned hides of a decimated beaver population. J.P. Morgan collected Gutenberg Bibles and rare manuscripts. The founders of the Metropolitan Opera included the Morgan, Roosevelt and Vanderbilt families. These people had the class to know that wealth which only showed itself in personal ease and garish display was ugly. Trump thinks ease and bling are all there is and that’s tacky—not just because it gilds third-rate products in ersatz gold, but because it devalues what it doesn’t understand.
That crass, blind devaluation is poised to attack the democratic institutions that wealthy men from our nation’s past had the good sense to value above their personal fortunes and even their lives. Trump, who fears and hates the idea that there’s anything better than his own venal image in the mirror is about to destroy what he can’t understand. And the rubes are applauding."