The Old City: What people have already forgotten about the Old New York...

What so many today sometimes forget (or never knew because you didn't live here) is how bad New York was 20 years ago, and even then for so long - at least since the 1950s and in some areas forever - before then. A truly gritty city. But no fear - here's a recap of an article, courtesy the NY Times, of what we miss:

In Manhattan: No Radio. Soon, No Car?
By David Margolick
Published: Wednesday, May 31, 1989 (20 years ago TODAY)
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My tired 1981 Datsun had paid its dues.

It had logged 73,000-odd miles, mostly on the Baltimore-Washington interstate. On the outside, it had suffered numerous bumps and bruises and scrapes. Inside, it was coated with spilled baby formula and Donald Duck apple juice. It deserved a decent dotage. Instead, it was sentenced to Manhattan.

I had heard all the horror stories about auto ownership in New York City, what with its sadistic parking regulations, lunar roadways. But when my brother offered to give me the car, I figured it was worth the price. I thought a battle-scarred, pockmarked jalopy with a busted radio made a far less tempting target than all the shiny Volvos, Saabs and BMW's parked nearby.

''No self-respecting burglar would even think of breaking into it,'' my brother said. Joey, things aren't that simple. I've had your car only a few weeks now, but already, you wouldn't recognize it.

The body count began almost immediately, as the car sat on West 88th Street, when the back lock was drilled out. A few nights later and a few blocks to the south, the lock on the passenger side disappeared. Not long ago, the rear window was kicked in on West 85th Street.

After that, some spray cleaner and a roll of Bounty paper towels, bought to remove the apple juice but foolishly left in the back seat, vanished. Sorry, Rosie, but on New York's streets Bounty is not the quickest picker-upper: The thieves are quicker. Then, a speaker went. And most recently, the radio. The steering wheel remains - at least when I last looked.

I'm hardly the only victim of predators. Walk along Riverside Drive any morning and look down on the ground. Every few feet, you'll see fresh nests of pellet-sized, Coke-bottle-colored glass, all of which were car windows only a few hours before.

The city is powerless and seems utterly incapable of stopping the problem, if not altogether indifferent to it. Of course, where there are dollars to be made - from parking violations -New York is uncharacteristically, uncannily Johnny-on-the-spot. Oversleep by five minutes or double park for 10, and invariably you'll find a ticket tucked under your windshield wiper.

But there's no profit in crime prevention, so the cars are sitting ducks.

The situation leads to strange consequences. Some New Yorkers take a Zen-like attitude and leave their car doors unlocked. Others adopt a more pragmatic approach. They carry on a bizarre one-way conversation with the pillagers through signs posted on car windows. Some are crude homemade jobs, some are printed stickers; some resemble ''Baby on Board'' notices. The tone varies, as drivers strive to sound firm without prompting gratuitous vandalism.

Most signs are straightforward. Some more comprehensive: Not only is there no radio; there's nothing in the trunk or glove compartment either. Some are defiant: ''No anything.'' Some are sardonic pleas for sympathy: ''No radio - already taken.'' Some are more informative: ''Nothing in the car - just maps.''

And some are abuser-friendly, if not downright degrading: ''No valuables. No radio. Thanks.'' Imagine someone thanking a thief for sparing him and victimizing someone else. I was half tempted to scrawl my own addition to that one: ''No dignity.''

Maybe the most articulate messages aren't signs but wounds: paper bags, cardboard or plastic where windows once were. These drivers are apparently wrestling with the problem I face: whether it's better to fix things or leave them as they are.

The first is expensive and, quite possibly, futile. But the second may be worse. As the hulks along New York's highways attest, vultures can find something of value in even the most picked-over carcasses.

Perhaps my experiences are atypical, like the car itself. My Datsun has an Achilles ''wheel'': an out-of-state license plate. To local brigands, this is a sure sign of a hopeless rube - the type who couldn't possibly imagine how barbaric life in New York City has become. They're right.