On a scale from the Chrysler Building to the Morgan Library, where does legendary comedian, drag king, and author of Showbiz! Murray Hill fit into the architectural and cultural bedrock of New York City? This is the fundamental question behind NYQ, a signature profile series designed to measure just how thoroughly "New York" notable local figures truly are by examining their habits, histories, and deeply ingrained urban survival tactics.
For Hill, the answer is built on a foundation of more than three decades in show business and a rare stroke of residential luck. When asked how many years he has called New York City home, the veteran entertainer offers a characteristically pragmatic and self-deprecating response. "I’m in show business. I can’t do math, but I think I’ve been living in New York for 35 years," he explains.
Despite navigating the notoriously volatile local housing market for over three decades, Hill boasts a statistic that sounds like urban myth to most modern residents: he has only moved twice. When asked how he managed such an enviable feat in a city defined by constant displacement, his answer is direct. "Got a rent-control apartment. Never leave it."
That steadfast commitment to staying put anchors a life deeply intertwined with the grit, eccentricities, and changing landscape of Manhattan. Over 35 years, Hill has absorbed the unspoken rules of the metropolis, developing a sharp perspective on everything from public transit etiquette to neighborhood gentrification.
When it comes to the daily trials of the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, Hill has clear opinions forged from years underground. Asked what single subway-etiquette rule he would enact into law, his directive is swift and pointed: "Fellas, please close your legs."
Encountering a fellow commuter who accidentally makes physical contact on a crowded train brings out a distinctly gendered, old-school urban response. If it is a woman who bumps into him, Hill plays the gentleman, offering a casual, "Hey, how you doing?" But if it is a man, the gloves come off with a blunt, "Get the fuck off me."
Yet, Hill knows when to fold. Confronted with a classic New York commuting nightmare—the train line is down and he is running late—his strategy skips panic entirely. He simply goes home. And when it comes to the logistical challenge of getting to a flight, his position is absolute. He has never taken public transit to the airport.
Memories of the city’s rougher edges run deep for Hill, particularly concerning the notoriously unreliable transit infrastructure of decades past. Recalling the longest he has ever waited on a subway platform, he paints a vivid picture of bygone Manhattan hardship. "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."
Today, the financial realities of the city occasionally draw a wry complaint, such as the time he paid ten dollars for a coffee—an expenditure he bluntly assesses as "bullshit." On the recreational front, he admits to a pastime usually left to newcomers: playing pickleball. For a public restroom in a pinch, Hill confesses to a spot that might draw raised eyebrows from locals in the know: McNally Jackson.
Hill’s cultural radar remains finely tuned. Asked for his best New York celebrity sighting, he names legendary underground filmmaker John Waters. When considering the city’s neighborhoods, Hill has a sharp critique for real estate marketing, immediately naming "Murray Hill" when asked to identify the fakest realtor-invented neighborhood. Yet, when hunger strikes and he needs a meal immediately in that very area to avoid passing out, he heads straight for the Murray Hill Diner. Asked if rats are actually cute, Hill offers a quick reality check: "They’re not as cute as me. I mean, right?" And regarding the outer boroughs, he admits his experience with Staten Island is strictly limited to driving through it.
His definitions of authentic New York experiences are rooted in high-velocity transit and the passage of time. You know you are a true New Yorker, Hill suggests, when a cab driver is speeding so dangerously that you might die, yet you remain completely silent because it means you will arrive at your destination quickly enough. As someone old enough to remember when a nightclub cover charge was just five dollars, Hill laments the loss of Florent, the beloved Meatpacking District diner that remains his top choice for a closed establishment he wishes he could resurrect. Asked to name the sexiest New Yorker, he doesn’t hesitate: Sarah Jessica Parker.
While Hill has spent decades performing at venues across the city, he singles out Joe’s Pub as the absolute best place to take the stage in New York. His stage presence even occasionally spills over into real life; asked if his phone has ever gone off during a performance, he confesses that it has happened during his own shows—and he has actually answered the calls. To unwind his celebrity status, the entertainer recently used his clout for a very practical purpose: securing a reservation at the Strip House on 12th Street.
Despite the city’s hard edges, Hill values the human element of urban life. Every New Yorker, he argues, should talk to a stranger at least once. He speaks from experience regarding the unexpected kindness of locals, recalling the time he lost his wallet on the floor. Two days later, someone knocked on his door and handed it back to him—completely empty, but returned nonetheless.
Life in close quarters also breeds its share of localized drama. Hill recounts a memorable altercation with a neighbor after an accident involving an air conditioner. While attempting to move the unit, his finger got caught, and the appliance dropped. The neighbor went into a panic, accusing him of nearly committing murder. Hill’s bewildered defense—pointing out that the neighbor was safely inside her apartment and that his own finger was hanging off—captures a uniquely New York brand of neighborly dispute.
For Murray Hill, after 35 years of rent-controlled stability, vodka gimlets on sweltering L train platforms, and iconic downtown nightlife, the essence of the city isn’t found in corporate developments or pristine tourist routes. It is found in the resilience, the unexpected encounters, and the enduring rhythm of a life fully lived in the city.
