“We Built This City on Rock and Roll”

Three days after Hurricane Sandy arrived, devastating and enigmatic in New York City and its surroundings, my grandson Jake and I walk out onto a darkened street in Greenwich Village. We are determined to re-constitute the disrupted holiday of Halloween. He (7 ¹/₂) is dressed as a “zombie gangster,” decked out in gear we had purchased earlier in the month at the divinely creative monster costume store on Broadway and 10th Street. His face is ghoulishly grey and festooned with fake gore. He sports handcuffs, a zoot suit, a black fedora, and a strange set of chains around his legs and shoulders. We are carrying bags of candy to give out to people on the street, our inspiration to reverse the usual “trick or treat” regimen, and also sidestep the absence of working elevators, traffic lights, and welcoming households. The streets are dark and eerie, mostly empty. There is an occasional slow-moving car. Yet, it is pleasing to see that those few idling cars slow down; people roll down windows and shout “cool costume dude” as we walk the blocks around Washington Square spreading sugar and cheer to the slow-moving, scattered, and somewhat stunned-looking passersby on the street.

I realize, as we are walking, that Jake is singing, quietly but insistently. I lean closer and hear: “We built this city on rock and roll.” Repeated, rhythmically and very sweetly, as we traverse the dark village streets. I have a moment of addled ′70s reverie. I cannot initially remember the name of the band, wondering, for a moment, if it is about Detroit, another ruined city. Maybe it's by Bob Segar. But no, it's a song by Jefferson Starship and it is variously thought to be about San Francisco or NYC. We walk through the dark and quiet spaces. Branches are lying on the curb. There are families on a Greenwich Village street on their stoop. Kids are stopping for candy. It is normal. It is the new normal.

Slowly all of us in NYC, including those reduced to radio and therefore without icons or imagery,