New York's naked truth

He has become a New York institution. He stands in the middle of Times Square, in his tighty-whiteys with the words "Naked Cowboy" emblazoned in blue, white and red across his buttocks. Tourists stop to take a photograph and stuff a dollar into his boots. Big boots. He can make up to a grand a day, he says.

Once upon a time he owned a spoon, a knife, a fork, a bed, a guitar and 36 pairs of underwear. He had an overwhelming fascination with being the centre of attention. He says he looked around his apartment and thought: "What else can I do?" So, down the street he went, briefly-clad. It's a gag of course, and a cheap one maybe, but Robert John Burck has busked half-naked for years and he's ultimately one of the few human moments in the vast choreography of commerce that has become Times Square.

The past is essentially a romantic nod to our imaginations, but I recall being a starry-eyed 20-year-old who once walked along 42nd Street – the place so suggestively sinister with sex and drugs and violence that you could almost hear the thump of blood through the veins. Marijuana on the corner. Hustlers. Scam artists. Whores in hotpants. Hotel-sneaks. Dealers hanging out in the greasy-spoon cafes. "Yo. Yo. Hey. Coke. Speed. Sensimillion."

In Bryant Park you could hear the crack vials smashing beneath your feet. It was a walk on the wild side and while not pretty it certainly made you feel like you were in a Whitman poem, every atom belonging to me as good as belonging to everyone else. It was certainly not a playful area, not an entertainment centre. The doorways of the massage parlours were darkened. The porno bookshops gave out a human waft. In fact, there were more crimes committed there than any other block in the United States.

Twenty years have gone by and, of course, things change, they have to change – life'd be dull if it were forever fascinating – and Times Square feels like a Disney tour these days, an Epcot experience, a walk around the Guinness brewery with no pint at the end. There are times I wish I could go back to those older streets where one could find the pulse of the wound. The wounds these days are patched up and disguised and called something else: the Virgin Megastore, the US Army Recruiting Centre, Toys 'R Us, Thank God It's Friday's. It's another form of "Yo, hey..." but the fact of the matter is that it's a business man's hip-hop and it doesn't have much soul to it. New York politicians talk a lot about Times Square being cleaned up in this squeaky-clean century – how nice it is, how safe, how wonderful the 3D billboards, how shiny-cheeked the half-million people who walk through every day! – but the truth is that it has its own sort of filth in its antiseptic gaze.

The area has in fact become so bright with corporate insignias that a walk through is essentially blinding. Times Square now has 32 perfect shining white teeth. It's like being in the eyes of TJ Eckleburg. The Army Recruiting Centre is no joke. It has been there for decades. The old stories don't change that much. When they want you to die for profit, they will let you know.

The United States is a country that's taking itself very seriously indeed these days – and the rest of the world knows that more than America does – so it's nice to know that there's still the oddball character who is prepared make a magnificent farce out of life. The Naked Cowboy says that he himself may be funny, but he aint no joke. Even in the worst of weather he's out there. There's a famous picture of him in his boots and underwear in a snowstorm on Broadway. He goes out in all weather. He poses for photogrpahs and he brings out the very best in New Yorkers when they pass him by. Hear their comments as the Naked Cowboy flexes his biceps: "He may not be rich, but he's got some family jewels." "I can't believe it's not butt-ah." "Call the cops, I see a large, concealed package."

The Naked Cowboy sees himself as Emersonian in his vision, teaching the world how to live. I'm not so sure about this, but at least it allows the passersby a little laugh at the fruit of the loon as he strums his guitar and waits for his boots to fill with dollars. Times Square may not seem his like too much longer.