First of all, let me state for the record, that I am a filthy hypocrite.
Secondly, regular readers might remember a post I put up back in March of this year about a guy named Cash Jordan. Cash is a self-described “rental expert” who has taken a novel and presumably lucrative approach to his chosen vocation as a real estate agent and turned himself into a bona fide YouTube/TikTok celebrity. At last glance, his YouTube channel has over 362K subscribers, and his videos – and he is nothing if not maddeningly prolific – regularly accrue views well into the multiple thousands. Whether you like what he does or not, he is inarguably very adept at it.
But as stated back on that earlier post, my gripe with young Mr. Jordan’s work was twofold. I took exception to his rather shallow and seemingly incurious approach to his subject matter (i.e. the residential topography of New York City) and the pointedly alarmist and defeatist sensationalism of his misleading video titles. In a nutshell, Cash rarely seems to give more than a blithely cursory backstory to whatever locale or element of New York City he’s discussing and he frames his videos with shamelessly clickbaity terminology that neither ever really pay off or even hold much truth to them (recent examples include: “NYC is Headed for Disaster …On Purpose,” “New York is Pretty Much Screwed,” “These Apartments are So Rough, Everyone Moved Out,” “New York is Broken … Here’s Why!” etc. etc. etc.) I found this formula sort of vexing.
The fundamental difference between Cash Jordan and myself, I thought at the time, is that when I look at a neighborhood, I wonder who lives there, who used to live there, what used to happen there and how it got to be the way that it is, but when Cash Jordan looks at a neighborhood, all he wonders is who might be able to live there in the future and how might that neighborhood be changed to make even more people want to live in it, preferably under the auspices of his real estate agency.
In the wake of posting my hatchet job on poor Cash, however, I was swiftly taken to task both online and off by readers quick to defend his output, suggesting that these clips were “fun to watch,” “entertaining” and not at all intended to be taken so deathly seriously. Basically, I was once again – as with my dressing down of vlogger Brett Conti –- guilty of being yet another Grampa Simpson, failing to appreciate the clever nuances of Cash’s professional insight. One could argue that this defense is amply supported by his aforementioned legions of viewers and subscribers. They all “get it,” why can’t I?
Well, while I can’t really cop to sensing the “entertaining fun” in the constant denigration of my hometown (especially from someone who invariably isn’t originally from here), I suppose I cannot argue with Cash Jordan’s hustle. He’s clearly found his niche and turned it into a massive success story. Moreover, I don’t genuinely believe he’s a bad guy. While I might quibble with his choice of descriptors, he seems like a smart dude and a devoted family man. And there’s a good chance he is quite invested in the history of New York City and all the inane minutia that comes with it, but it’s just that his videos aren’t about that. I mean, just because he’s keener to talk about rental apartment amenities than vanished records store or forgotten local punk bands – why can’t we be friends?
So, yeah, maybe I was being too harsh on Cash Jordan.
This is where my hypocrisy comes in.
About three or four weeks ago, my manager at work gave me a fifty-dollar gift certificate to the MoMa Design Shop for my birthday. Nice, right? She usually gives me coupons for craft-beer emporiums, so this was kind of a step up. With nothing to do, a couple of weekends back, I suggested to my wife that we should really go and blow that gift certificate before I invariably forget I have it. So, we trooped on down to SoHo to visit MoMa’s shop on Crosby Street.
As we were rounding the corner of Bleecker Street on Lafayette, who should I spot lurking across the street but none other than Cash Jordan himself. Bounding across the road en route to Crosby Street, I barked out his name as I passed him, extended a hand to shake and told him to “keep up the good work,” or words to that effect.
He turned and thanked me as I continued down Crosby. I didn’t stop to engage him on any point, nor take him to task for the grievances with his videos that I’ve shared here because, again, who the fuck am I to do that? He’s the one with millions of views on YouTube, whereas I just have a laughably anachronistic blog with a name that doesn’t even appear in its own URL. One of us knows what he’s doing and the other clearly doesn’t. Not that we’re exactly in any semblance of competition, but Cash Jordan is an ambitious, ever-expanding venture, while Flaming Pablum is a just hot buffet of missed opportunities. As such, I’m officially recanting all the shit-talk I shared about his videos. And all is forgiven to Brett Conti, too (like he gives a fuck). Big of me, right?
Cut to a week later: My friends Eric and Katie meet my wife and I for lunch somewhere in the West Village and Eric immediately whips out his phone, explaining that a day or so earlier, he’d been procrastinating at work and fallen down a YouTube K-hole (do we still call them those?) In any case, in the midst of it, he found himself watching a clip about New York City, only half paying attention, when suddenly he heard a familiar voice.
Apparently, I made it into one of Cash’s video ... fittingly titled with dramatic overemphasis “It’s Over… NYC Isn’t Recovering!”
Look for me around the 09:21 mark.
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