Blog

Gregg Easterbrook writes about the death of Captain Kangaroo much better than I ever could.

I’m off to Las Vegas for the Informex conference. If you need to find me, I’ll be staying at the obsidian pyramid that’s shooting a laser beam two miles into space.

I’ve had two Vegas trips so far, and they’ve left me with the belief that the city is actually an alien theme park of planet Earth. Which helps explain both the laser beam AND the proximity to Area 51.

While there, I’m hoping to take a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon. And maybe I’ll go catch this guy, too.

In the UK, the Guardian discusses how and why the market for Ecstasy has collapsed. My favorite quote:

“[Ecstasy] lay undisturbed until the 1950s, when the CIA picked it up for a few desultory animal tests in its search for a truth serum. How the agency’s interrogators planned to determine that their dogs were telling the truth is unclear, but whatever they saw did not impress, and MDMA never officially made it to human trials.”

Read on.

From the NYTimes:

“A large part of the European left spent a large part of the 20th century hating the United States not because it had economic inequality or Jim Crow but because it did not have show trials, labor camps and the other appurtenances of ‘actually existing socialism.'”

It’s my birthday! On this day in 1971, I was putting my mom through hell for the first time: two weeks late, 24 inches tall, 10 lbs. & six oz.!

Much love to everyone who neglected to send a card on time, and just a little more to those who did send their cards in time (both of you have the first initial of V, which must have some Pynchonesque significance).

Happy birthday to K., who celebrates this day too.

Best wishes to Smadley, my associate editor at the day job, who runs in her first half-marathon today to benefit leukemia research.

First Meat Loaf.

Then Alex Lifeson.

Now Ray Davies.

Who’s next? You? Me? Alice Cooper?

(or, From a Scream to a Whisper)

I went into New York City last night for the New Year’s celebrations. I had a somewhat packed schedule: dinner with friends, drinks with my favorite bartenderess (both on the upper west side), and a party at a wonderful townhouse on the upper east side. All three of these went well. I didn’t get to my crash-pad (thanks, John & Liz!) until almost 4am, but that was more a sign of how much fun we were having, rather than a reason for complaint.

But the evening was set up by a comedic moment that put a capstone on the most transformative months of my life.

As some of my readers know, I was pretty severely Kicked In The Ass By Love back in September. For a little less than two months, I was seeing a girl who, despite her best intentions, made me happy. It wasn’t a state I was familiar with and, when she left me in early November (for pretty ambiguous reasons of the “It’s not you; it’s me” variety), I was pretty wrecked. While I’ve gone on with my life pretty well, it’s been tough sometimes. I guess I just wanted some kind of finality, a conversation in which she said, “This is what was wrong, and this is why we’re not going to see each other again.” Without that, I’ve let her linger in my thoughts (not constantly, but too often).

So yesterday, on my way to the city, I thought, “I’ll give her a call, and ask her if I can see her for a minute.” One of those “one last time” moments, but without the heaviness, dreariness or drama. Which is to say, I was still out of my head and didn’t realize how much the world keeps spinning, regardless of my angst.

It reminds me of a song I heard recently: “Do You Realize?” by the Flaming Lips. It’s a pretty simple song, but I adore it. The main lyric (it’s not really a verse-chorus-verse sorta song) is: “Do you realize that everyone you know / Someday will die / And instead of saying all of your goodbyes, let them know / You realize that life goes fast / It’s hard to make the good things last /You realize the sun doesn’t go down / It’s just an illusion caused by the world spinning round.”

I tried to call her from the ferry (she lives a few blocks away, in Hell’s Kitchen), but my cell phone wouldn’t dial out. I thought there might be some cell-jammer in the area, because of security precautions, but some of my fellow travelers on the ferry were using their phones, so I tried to shut off my phone and turn it back on. Unfortunately, the phone froze in shut-off mode, which left me incommunicado.

Well, thought I, I’ll walk over, ring her buzzer, and just see if she’ll make a minute for me, if she’s even around. It was early in the afternoon, around 3:30, but I thought (hoped) she might have gone away for the celebration.

I rang the intercom, and she called down, “Hello?”

“Hey,” I said, in my usual deep rasp.

“Hi! Come on up!” she said. The door-lock buzzed, so I opened up. I hadn’t been in the building in two months, and the sensory memories overwhelmed me a little. I walked up five flights of stairs, marveling over the enthusiasm of her voice.

When I got to the top, I saw that her door was ajar. I knocked, heard her say, “Come in!” and walked through. The shower was going strong, and steam filled the upper reaches of the bathroom, creeping out under the top of the doorframe. She peeked her head out from the shower curtain, broad smile beaming across her face.

“Hi! . . . What are you doing here?” Still smiling, but a little less beamingly.

“Well, it looks like I’m not being the person you thought you were buzzing in,” I said.

“. . .” but she got bonus points for not losing the smile.

“I’m in town for New Years, and I wanted to see you for a minute. My phone’s dead, otherwise I would’ve called.”

“. . .”

“And now I’ve seen you.”

I turned around and headed downstairs. For a moment, I thought of beating myself up inside in a “You fool! You’ve been longing for this woman, while she’s buzzing in some other deep-voiced man of few words” sorta way. But then I thought, “Y’know, it was an awfully funny way for things to end, and what better day?”

I mean, after the lightning-strike of love, the pitching of woo, the weeks of bliss, the desperate longing without her, it all gets wrapped up with a bow on New Year’s eve, in a manner I couldn’t contrive if I tried. I get closure and low comedy, and it was over with in time for me to get deliriously “festive” and dance my ass off with friends and strangers.

All of which is to say, “Happy New Year!”

P.S.: Much love to Cecily, who stopped in to see me today (on her way home to Philadelphia) and complained that I haven’t really mentioned her in these pages. New Year’s love also goes out to John C., Liz, Blake, Ines, Chip, Dennis, John Del G., Stacy, Vince and, most importantly, Bonnie, without whom (and her “Something So Strong” NZ-inspired Tanqueray-and-tonics) I wouldn’t have had half as much fun last night.

The love of friends makes life worth it.

New Year’s resolutions have never been my bag. I tend to do things as they arise, rather than waiting for a particular calendar-based occasion (friends who’ve received out-of-the-blue presents from me can attest to this). I already treat my friends with love, and I’ve tried opening up to my family much more in the past few months (the broken heart and the grandeur of the New Zealand trip have done wonders for shaking me out of whatever rut I was in).

I’ve had some time off this week, so I’ve taken care of some things that have been nagging. So they’re kinda like New Year’s resolutions:

Yesterday, I quit the gym I belonged to. A rep asked why, and I said, “It’s my resolution to get fat and out of shape in 2004. Know where I can buy some cigarettes?” (In fact, I plan on buying a treadmill and setting it up in the living room, so I can run while watching basketball a couple of evenings a week.)

I let a many of my magazine subscriptions lapse. New Yorker, Publishers Weekly, The Forward, New York Observer, Wired: all done. I plan to read less in 2004, or at least to let fewer magazines and papers pile up in my house. For some reason, I retained my subscription to The Atlantic Monthly, even though it tends to be the least-read magazine in my house.

I returned to work on Gold/Stopwatch, my essay about the Cold War, the parallels between espionage and intimacy, the parallels between the ABM treaty and French movies, and the ways in which we translate love. (It’s that last part that I’ve been turning over again and again, these past few months.)

I started reading a pile of manuscripts that were submitted for my publishing company. They’ve really added up in the past six months, and it’s been unfair of me to let them sit so long, especially when I have no idea what Voyant’s next book is going to be.

I bought a home theater system (just a small one from Samsung: nothing super-extensive), then set up an audio-input switcher and an IR remote so I can hook up the iPod to the thing. So I guess the resolution is this: in 2004, I’ll incur the enmity of my neighbors, who surely never bargained on living near a 32-year-old bachelor with an insatiable taste for music.

I’ve already dropped the 40 lbs. I wanted to lose, and there’s little possibility that I’ll make the time to read the last 5 volumes of Proust in the next 12 months, so this sounds like a good set of resolutions.

Last night, just when I planned on kicking back on the official Virtual Memories fainting couch and reading some of Herodotus’ Histories, I got a call from my buddy Adam, who was planning on going to some chanukkah parties in NYC.

Before I left the house, I considered grabbing my digital camera, but thought, “Ah, I’ll end up dropping it in the sink when I’m washing my hands, like I did in NZ.” So I left it on the hall table.

I seriously regretted this decision two hours later when, at the Manhattan Jewish Experience party, we were treated to the rap stylings of “50 Shekel.” You can’t imagine how dismayed I am that I don’t have any photos of this for you. When he went onstage, I was in the midst of explaining to a Frenchwoman how NYC is sorta defined by plasticity, by the capacity of reinvention, both in its architecture and in its inhabitants. She gestured up at the stage and said, “Say no more.”

After this party, Adam & I headed down to a club near 12th St. for another gathering of Jews (as well as some, um, members of the lost tribe, if you get my meaning). We gallivanted and debauched in a fun way. It was fun to be clubbing at a time when most of New York was asleep. While the gentiles were having their dreams of sugar-plum fairies, a girl took one look at me, grabbed me by the lapels and pulled me close so we could dance to Sean Paul. It was a little Jewish wonderland. I just wish it hadn’t been so loud.

The lowlight of the evening, though, had to be when Adam & I double-teamed some poor girl on the dance floor, a la the Butabi brothers. Or maybe the real lowlight was when we were hitting a street-meat kiosk at 2am. It’s all a bit of a blur, I’m afraid.

Anyway, for any of my Christian friends who are so bored that they’re actually reading this on Christmas day, I want to extend my wishes for a good holiday. God is love, and the constant unfolding of creation is our daily miracle.