On a scale ranging from the towering art deco grandeur of the Chrysler Building to the quiet, scholarly brickwork of the Morgan Library, where exactly does legendary downtown comedian, drag king, and author Murray Hill fit? To find out, Curbed sat down with the entertainment icon—whose new memoir, Showbiz!, chronicles a lifetime spent on stages, behind velvet ropes, and on the gritty streets of the five boroughs—for the latest installment of NYQ, a recurring series that measures just how deeply "New York" notable local figures truly are.
For Hill, the answer is written in three and a half decades of urban survival, rent-controlled blessings, and the specific kind of institutional memory that only comes from watching a city transform around you while you hold your ground.
When asked about the timeline of his deep-rooted romance with the metropolis, Hill brushes off the arithmetic with the breezy nonchalance of a veteran performer. "I’m in show business. I can’t do math, but I think I’ve been living in New York for 35 years," he says. In that span, he has managed a feat that borders on mythological for modern urbanites: he has only moved twice. When questioned about the secret to this extraordinary real estate luck, his answer is characteristically blunt: "Got a rent-control apartment. Never leave it."
That pragmatic, unyielding spirit defines much of Hill’s perspective on navigating the city’s complex social and physical infrastructure, especially its transit systems. Ask him to enact a single piece of subway-etiquette legislation, and he doesn’t hesitate to target a classic commuter grievance: "Fellas, please close your legs." If physical interaction turns hostile and a stranger bumps into him on a crowded car, his response strategy is equally clear-cut and gender-dependent. "I look at them, and if it’s a lady, I’ll say, ‘Hey, how you doing?’ And if it’s a guy, I say, ‘Get the fuck off me.’"
Should a train line go down entirely while he is running late for an engagement, Hill declines to engage in the frantic scramble for shuttle buses or alternative routes. His solution is simple and uncompromising: "Go home." And when it comes to the logistical hurdle of getting to the airport via public transportation, his answer is absolute: "Never."
Street-level encounters in Manhattan require a similar mental calculus. Handed a promotional flyer by a pedestrian distributor, Hill applies a strict editorial filter: "If it’s religious, I will not take it. If it’s a show flyer, I’ll take it." When hunger strikes in the neighborhood that bears his name, and he faces the prospect of passing out from exhaustion, he heads straight to the Murray Hill Diner for immediate sustenance.
Naturally, a 35-year veteran of the city’s cultural trenches has strong opinions about its iconic wildlife and geography. Confronted with the persistent internet sentiment that New York’s ubiquitous rats are somehow cute, Hill offers a definitive reality check: "They’re not as cute as me. I mean, right?" As for the outer boroughs, his engagement with Staten Island has been strictly vehicular: "I’ve driven through it." And when linguistic precision is required regarding Manhattan’s place in the urban cosmos, he firmly calls it "the city."
Some of Hill’s most vivid recollections involve the brutal endurance tests of the city’s older transit era. Asked about the longest he has ever waited on a subway platform, he recalls the trials of decades past. "Back in the old days, I’ve waited an hour and a half. They used to never come to—the L train would never come. And I’d have a couple vodka gimlets from, you know, being out that night. And I would sit there and rot in the subway for hours. And it’s nice and hot and sweaty in there."
Inflation and modern luxury have not escaped his notice, either. The most he has ever paid for a cup of coffee in New York is ten dollars—an expenditure he readily labels as "bullshit." Yet, even seasoned locals succumb to changing urban pastimes; admitting to a habit usually reserved for wide-eyed out-of-towners, Hill confesses that he secretly still plays pickleball.
Practical survival in Manhattan often requires unorthodox solutions, particularly when nature calls. Asked to name his go-to public bathroom, Hill acknowledges the controversial nature of his pick: "I’m going to get in trouble for saying this: McNally Jackson." His celebrity encounters, meanwhile, touch on true downtown royalty, citing legendary filmmaker John Waters as his best New York celebrity sighting.
When the conversation turns to the shifting geography of the metropolis, Hill shares a sharp critique of real estate marketing, naming Murray Hill itself as the fakest realtor-invented neighborhood in town. His internal definition of a true New Yorker relies on a familiar brand of vehicular adrenaline: "You know you’re a New Yorker when your cab driver is driving so fast, and you might die, but you don’t say anything because you’ll get there quick enough."
Having witnessed decades of transformation, Hill remembers when a nightclub cover charge was a mere five dollars. Among the ghosts of New York’s nightlife and dining past, the loss he feels most acutely is Florent, the beloved Meatpacking District diner that served as a home away from home for artists, night owls, and industry insiders. When asked to name the sexiest New Yorker, he points directly to Sarah Jessica Parker.
While he avoids hot-dog stands these days—preferring a frankfurter at a Hamptons barbecue—Hill believes every resident should talk to a stranger at least once. Sometimes, those strangers offer reminders of the city’s unexpected grace. Hill recounts a genuine moment of kindness: "I lost my wallet. I dropped it on the floor, and somebody picked it up, knocked on my door two days later, and gave it back to me. There was nothing in it, but he gave it back to me."
Even with decades of accumulated fame, Hill still utilizes his status for practical urban maneuvering, admitting the last thing he used it for was securing a coveted table at the Strip House on 12th Street. Though he hasn’t hailed a yellow cab in six years, the theatrical unpredictability of his life remains undiminished. Asked if his phone has ever gone off during a performance, he admits it has happened right while he was on stage—prompting him to simply answer it.
For a performer who has graced stages across the city, the absolute best place to perform remains Joe’s Pub. Yet the chaotic friction of urban life can strike anywhere, even at home. Hill recalls a past altercation with a neighbor that escalated over an ordinary domestic mishap. While attempting to move an air conditioner, his finger got caught in the unit, causing it to drop. The neighbor went into a panic, accusing him of nearly committing murder. "And I said, ‘It didn’t hit you. You were inside,’" Hill recalls. "And she was like, ‘You tried to—you could have killed me.’ I was like, ‘You were inside. And my thumb is like—my finger’s hanging off. I didn’t hit you. We’re good.’ That’s about as angry as I’ll ever get."
