I closed a few days in the monstrous shadows of The City, which is what the remaining natives call Manhattan. Walking through Manhattan is a hurried and congested experience with people of every human type, though predominantly populated by moneyed palefaces and the best-formed examples of post-European Caucasian womanhood. I understand now, why rich men go to this hellish place—to pluck a dainty before she wilts on this asphalt vine. Police in blue-suited gangs cluster about. I have never seen such a chilling heard of blue bulls.

Asians are everywhere, including the prettiest stripper I’ve ever seen, walking away from a gentleman’s club under a catwalk—there is construction everywhere and underneath of it walk mobs of Asians. The hideous meat boxes that are the Manhattan skyline—being ever built it seems—are rivaled in ugliness by the apartment buildings of Brooklyn, Park Slope and Sheep’s Head Bay. I like Queens much better, like a gnome garden filled with little china dolls.

Patterns of habitation appear. The evening at a Brooklyn Beer Garden with Carbon Mike and Mescaline Franklin, waited on by a blonde Austrian babe, was rarified and ephemeral. The food is so expensive I found myself asking to be taken to a fast food joint. When I complimented our waitress on the quality and prices of the beer and her advice on the selection, she informed me that I had been overcharged in Manhattan because I was a ‘tourist.” I retorted, “I’m not a tourist. I’m a refugee from Baltimore looking for a city with blonde women.”

The subways were so much nicer than Baltimore city busses and the Long Island Train to Penn Station was like being in Bale Runner, racing through the alimentary canal of an ever-hungry city with the most hideous visage imaginable.

I must say that the swallowed little town near Coney Island where we had Chinese after scouting the Gravesend Site of a 17th Century Indian battle, was a relief, like something out of Western Maryland or Pennsylvania lingering in human scale within the terrible superstructure.

The ebony oppressed hold a very different place in the Heart of the Capitalist World than they do in Baltimore, where they are openly worshipped and feared like so many King Kongs being appeased by nervous islanders. In Brooklyn, which looks like a better done version of Baltimore, the ebony martyr class are clearly the pets of affluent white people. An Asian police officer tells me of advising hipster babes not to jog near low income projects and they accuse him of being a racist, even after one of the women is gang raped by 7 negroes. The Asians and Latinos [who seem to coexist in symbiotic economic enclaves] do not suffer from negrophillia at all and the Latinos have no negrophobea. However, on the margins of Manhattan the ebony beggars skulk. Next to the hipster enclaves of Brooklyn, the ebony slackers lounge and pace aimlessly. I have seen no structured drug trade.

One Old Italian-Irish bar in Queens, where we dined yesterday, had Reggie, a small black man wearing a cap as a mascot. He was loved, well-treated, jibed and no doubt lived under considerable Caucasian protection, as the alpha male in the bar, an old boxer, seated at the short end, who instructed the barmaid to give us a free beer, eyed our shoulders like an old trainer gauging punching power. Queen was ridiculous in terms of implicit trust, with the Christmas garden like side streets lit as if for a movie with tiny, helpless women in expensive clothes, carrying purses and shopping bags walked about unaware and unmolested, not even concerned with two hooded men walking by in the night. The bars on doors and windows told of a purge decades ago and of lingering burglary. But the streets were among the safest I have walked.

One thing has New York brought to my dimming mind like a thunderbolt- illuminating crucifixion, is that Caucasian Americans and African Americans are one mongrel culture, with the ebony half dependent in every way upon the ghost half, in a symbiosis of guilt and shame, a catatonic dance of racial parasitism and self-loathing.

It the occurs why the Dutch/Anglo/Hebrew stew that is New York has invited millions of Asians and Latinos at the same time it has expelled hundreds of thousands of blacks to places like Atlanta and small towns in Pennsylvania. When I was speaking to Carbon Mike a few months ago in West Baltimore I idly touched a number of empty bike racks with my boot toe and, in between searching for and finding H.L. Mencken’s house, Mescaline informed me that these were community bike rental racks—a national program. I just shook my head, “Where’s the bikes?”

“Exactly!” he chuckled.

Then, as we walked out of Penn Station and at a couple other locations in Manhattan and Brooklyn, I saw those same racks, not empty as in Baltimore but packed with lines of bright blue bicycles!

Big Ron's Baltimore: A Working Man's View of Urban Blight