Do You Know What it Means

Ever since my first visit, well over a decade back, I’ve loved New Orleans. Aside from New York and San Francisco, it’s the only place in the continental United States I daydream of, feel the need to return to, over and over.

Yet, as I drove along I-10 towards the Crescent City earlier this week, my stomach churned with apprehension, unsure of how the city – and my love of it – had fared Katrina.

As we closed in, the highway was lined with downed trees and abandoned strip malls, buildings reduced to shells and piles of rubble. We parked just outside the French Quarter, amidst broken windows and shutters hanging loose on their hinges.

Iberville Street was oddly empty as walked to the Acme Oyster House, to join some local friends for lunch. The restaurant, at least, was full, and, waiting for a table, I spoke with some Louisianans at the bar. And, in that one conversation, all my fears subsided.

I recognized the way they talked of the hurricane, of their surprise that friends and relatives would even suggest they consider uprooting their lives and moving somewhere else. I recognized it because I had said and felt precisely the same things, living in Manhattan in the wake of 9/11.

I don’t know if some cities have a spirit and character that carries them through disaster, or if, like a cornered animal, nearly any would pull together in that same intense yet casual way were its existence threatened.

But I knew, at least, that New Orleans had. That, as we in the rest of the country worried on their behalf, fretted and opined about whether the city would ever be the same, the people who lived there had already set aside such academic debate, consumed instead with the day-by-day process of carrying on with life.

By the time I left Louisiana the next morning, continuing on I-10 towards Austin, my thoughts were already drifting back towards the city behind me. If it ever slept, I’d tell New Orleans to wait up for me; it won’t be long until I’m back.

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May 12, 2006

The Looking Glass

`Cheshire Puss,’ she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. `Come, it’s pleased so far,’ thought Alice, and she went on. `Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’

`That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat.

`I don’t much care where–‘ said Alice.

`Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat.

– Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

I’ve long been fascinated by the neurobiology of attention – the interactions of parts of our brains like the hypothalamus and the reticular activation system. Each day, all day, we’re bombarded by sensations; yet, somehow, we filter out the vast majority, letting through a select few. Reading a book, we lose ourselves in the pages, blocking out completely the world around us. Or, talking at a cocktail party, we tune down others’ conversations, focusing in on just the words of our conversational companions.

I’m reminded of that particularly when I buy something new. I remember, in college, purchasing a Toyota Celica, and suddenly finding myself passing hundreds of other Celicas on the highways and streets. Not because, of course, people had suddenly rushed out to lease similar cars; but, rather, because my brain decided the ones that had always been out there were, for the first time, interesting enough to pass through to my conscious mind.

All of which is to say that I believe the brain is largely cybernetic. Not in the computerized sense of the word, but closer to it’s Greek root, ‘kybernetes’, which means something akin to ‘steersman’. It begins with an end in mind, then focuses us on and readjusts us towards those things that bring us closer and closer to that goal.

Which leaves us floundering, then, when the target isn’t clearly locked; without somewhere we want to end up, like Alice, it doesn’t much matter which way we go.

I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, mainly in the context of dating, of big city romance. With so many potential partners – an embarrassment of riches – we urban singles are weighed down by the tyranny of choice. There are so many people who might be right, and so many more who might be just a bit righter still than whomever we’re currently with.

But most of us, at a very basic level, don’t have any idea of what ‘right’ looks or feels like in the first place. We drink our way from date to date, trying to guess, hoping our hearts or guts or friends or mothers, or even the Cheshire Cat, will somehow jump in to tell us when we’ve found it.

So, for weeks, I’ve been brainstorming my way through my own sense of ‘right’, my own list of qualities I think I’m looking for. I’ve been quietly analyzing the long happily married couples I know, squaring that with my own experience, adding ideas, crossing off items, and boiling things down to the bare essentials: things I can look for that, alongside the requisite lightning bolt, would leave me happily ever after. In short, a target, an end in mind that my subconscious might, day by day, guide me towards.

And while my list is still brewing, certainly not yet ready for public consumption, I did, earlier this week, find at least one item that seems sure to make the final cut. Dr. Dan Gottlieb, a quadriplegic psychologist and guest on NPR’s Fresh Air, related the story of a young woman who he’d seen in his practice. “I feel like my soul is a prism,” she told him. “But everybody sees just one color. Nobody sees the prism.”

As someone too long practiced at playing social chameleon, I find her concern hits particularly close to home. Which is why, among anything else, I can see the appeal, or perhaps the necessity, of ending up with someone with whom I could always be my full, garishly multi-colored self.

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May 1, 2006

Good Day, Sunshine

With the spring sun once again radiant atop the New York skyline, I spent this afternoon wandering the streets, mainly observing, in store window reflections, that I am exceedingly, cadaverously pale.

I am, by nature, a light-skinned person – having inherited my coloring more from my red-haired mother than my oft-mistaken-for-Italian father. But, after a winter spent in New York City, blanching under the glow of overhead fluorescents, I’ve moved well past past ‘fair’, and into ‘look kids, there’s Casper!’

Still, there’s more than just vanity behind my concern. Research seems to indicate that being tan is actually good for your skin, whereas it’s getting tan, and particularly getting tan fast, that’s particularly dangerous. And as, during the summer, I’m likely to be spending long hours on at least some days under beating solar rays, I’m hoping to ease myself in, rather than scorch to lobster on a first extended outing.

So, over the course of the next few weeks, I’ve been trying to engineer my schedule to allow for at least short periods of daily time in the sun. And, equally so, trying to schedule them as, say, shirtless morning jogs; having learned from past years how permanent a base my first spring sun forays can leave, I’m eager to avoid a repeat of one year’s redneck-ready farmer tan.

Mainly because I realize I’ll eventually want to hit a beach. And I don’t own nearly enough NASCAR-logoed bathing suits to back up the look.

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April 30, 2006

Make a Difference

Last night, I was having drinks with a few friends who work in private asset management for exceedingly wealthy families. A few rounds in, one friend observed that, while such families are inevitably hell-bent on building their net worths, they’re also textbook examples of the law of diminishing returns. Which is to say, from a quality of life perspective, the first billion makes a far bigger dent than the second.

At the same time, this afternoon I found in my mailbox a pitch letter for a ‘sponsor a young Sudanese refugee’ program. For just a dollar a day, it explained, I could change the life of an African child.

And while, certainly, such sponsor programs are exceedingly noble in their goals, they also seem to be a dime a dozen. Which prompted me to combine the two threads – sponsorship and billionaire families – for a brilliantly outside-the-box business idea:

For just $10,000 a day, I can help those families sponsor a young New Yorker. (Namely, me. Though, not being greedy, I’m totally happy to start a list for other such civically-minded volunteers should a sufficient number of sponsoring families take the call to action.)

Like that kid in Sudan, I’d be more than happy to write a monthly letter to my sponsor. I’d even include pictures: me at Nobu enjoying an omakase dinner, at the Hotel Gansevoort with table service and a bottle of Cristal.

And, in turn, I’d even be happy to sponsor a whole village of those little kids in Sudan. Take that, foes of trickle-down economics.

A few friends in the legal world have pointed out that it may be a long road to 501c3 status for this burgeoning nonprofit, given our near-sighted government’s narrow understanding of ‘need’.

But, I’m convinced that, regardless of donation tax status, smart families interested in really changing lives should be quick to sign on. I’d tell you as soon as they do, but, to be honest, it may take a few weeks to install an internet connection on my new private Bahamian island.

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April 19, 2006

In Brief

About three years back, I observed that men are loath to part with beloved clothing items: sweaters, jeans, t-shirts, and – particularly – underwear. Given a trusty pair of boxers, I said, “we’ll keep washing and wearing… until it’s disintegrated to nothing more than a waistband and a few hanging threads.”

And while, fortunately, my own have not yet reached that state, they are undoubtedly looking rather rough around the edges. (Literally. One of the first things to go, it seems, is the waistband elastic.)

So, this past weekend, I set out shopping. By broad female consensus, boxer briefs remained the only suitable way to go. But, for reasons I’ve never quite discerned, nearly every designer – including my own long-preferred Calvin Klein – seems to sell their pairs in only black, navy and heather gray.

On my way to a department store, however, I stopped to pick up a hard drive I had lent to a friend some months back. And, next door to his office, I noticed Gap holding its REALLY BIG SALE. (Capitalization theirs.) With some time to kill, and my mind in shopping mode, I decided to pop inside.

Lo and behold, Gap, of all places, had somehow veered away from the tri-color hegemony. Even better, they had reshaped their boxer briefs’ cut, away from what previously looked like foreshortened long underwear to a much hipper ‘athletic square cut’. And, best of all, the sale took the price per pair to a scant $6.99

So, now, my underwear drawer has, once again, been wholesale refreshed, au courant with an array of stripes, primary colors, and even one pair emblazoned with little green alligators knit right into the fabric.

I’ve previously admitted my belief in lucky underwear, and can therefore say I’m particularly excited to discover the effects of that alligatored pair.

They look auspicious indeed.

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April 17, 2006

Old School

Over the past few months, I’ve increasingly discovered that, in flirting with women, everything funny back in second grade is now funny again.

Thumb wrestling, rock-paper-scissors, faux magic tricks; phrases like ‘dillhole’ and ‘dickweed’; offering your hand to a girl apologetically after you make fun of her, then, when she takes it, slapping her on the wrist and laughing hysterically at her having fallen for it.

I was taught this last one by the chatty, articulate eight-year old girl who lives down the hall from me, a girl who, since my discovery of the power of second-grade-inspired pickups, has essentially become my personal Hitch.

Just last weekend, for example, she passed along a gem I successfully field-tested at bars throughout the week: mouse races.

Imagine three mice, she explained to me: a deaf mouse, a dumb mouse, and a blind mouse. A mouse race, then, involved me putting out my upturned palm, then letting her draw lines representing each mouse up along my arm, as far as I thought each mouse would go before it stopped.

She did the blind mouse first, and I let her draw about half-way across my hand before I stopped her. Then the dumb mouse, which I let get just past my palm and onto my wrist.

Finally, the deaf mouse. Stop, I said, when she was again just passing my wrist. But, of course, she kept plowing ahead, it taking me two more ignored ‘stops’ before I got the joke.

After which, my little neighbor dissolved into paroxysms of gasping laughter; as, in fact, have I, the two times I’ve since pulled this off on others.

But, the odd thing is, rather than being appalled at the stupidity of it all, women apparently find this fun and charming, even want you to write your phone number on their arms alongside the three lines.

Which, previously, I totally would have done. But, now, having increasingly reverted to my second grade self, seems like a rather dangerous idea; after all, those girls are probably covered with cooties.

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April 9, 2006

All Your Women are Belong to Me

I have, since its inception, heartily resisted joining MySpace, in large part because I liked it better back in 1997, when it was still called GeoCities.

Still, there’s something vaguely impressive about MySpace’s neo-Luddite approach, its bravery in re-championing the blink tag and eye-searingly fluorescent background art that completely obscures actual text.

Recently, an increasing number of filmmakers have been asking if and how MySpace fits into Cyan’s movie marketing plans. So, thinking there might be use in having a presence on the site myself, a few days back, I took the plunge and joined.

Initially, I intended to copy my profile directly from Friendster. But, as it was late at night, it seemed far funnier to forego any charm, and simply paint myself as the sort of misanthrope that, honestly, I usually am.

For my ‘about me’ section, I put up this:

I’m an obnoxious asshole. I like to play the push-your-buttons game, I derive joy from being difficult, and I like laughing at the expense of stupid people.

Sometimes, people assume that, below the selfish jerk shell, I’m really a good guy. But, in fact, I’m like an asshole onion: peel away the outer layer and all you have is more asshole.

Then, for ‘who I’d like to meet’:

Anyone who thinks they can hold my interest and keep up with my smartass attitude.

My standards are high. In fact, I probably won’t even email you back unless you say something wildly entertaining or intriguing. Yes, that includes you.

All of which, I figured, would put a pre-emptive kibosh on any MySpace socializing.

Apparently, no.

It seems, instead, that the profile is just obnoxious enough to trigger women’s love of challenge, their desire to find guys as diamonds in the rough that they alone can hone into something more broadly recognized as precious gem.

In the past few days, I’ve received more than a handful of emails from women – and, disproportionately so, from rather attractive ones – basically trying to figure out if I’m actually that obnoxious in real life.

So, lest any such women back-research their way to this site, wondering whether my attitude is simply some recent invention, I point to a post from almost precisely a year back, which I will here reprint in its entirety.

FAQ
Filed April 14, 2005 in Disclosures.

In response to the emailed question I most frequently receive:

Q. Are you really this much of a pretentious asshole in real life?

A. Pretty much.

At least I’m consistent.

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April 4, 2006

Spiked

Though, a week ago, the fu manchu was, according to one blogger I then met, “one of those faint, prepubescent mustaches that look like the wearer has just finished drinking Yoohoo and forgot to wipe his lip,” it quickly grew out to something more terrifyingly bushy, something that received even worse reviews.

So, as of this morning, I’m back to clean-shaven, though likely to return – out of equal parts style and sloth – to my scruffy-bearded standard.

At the same time, my hair (as in head-top, rather than facial) has also reached the latter stages of the cut-grow-grow cycle. At the start of each such circuit, my hair spikes up, entirely on its own. So, in an effort to imply intentionality, I often use pomade during that first stage, as if to say, ‘yes, it’s supposed to look like this.’

Somewhere along the way, however, my hair loses its alfafa enthusiasm, laying down in such a way as to invite (at least when beardless) frequent comparison to Matthew Broderick. And, normally, at that point I stop using pomade.

But, this time through, oddly enthralled with the idea of stylistic self-experimentation (regardless of the distinct non-success of Project Fu Manchu), I’ve decided to keep pomading, and keep growing, as long as I can get my hair to stand straight up.

I’ve begun to discover already that doing so requires far more gel than usual – may soon even necessitate a whole new stronger, firmer-holding compound. But that shouldn’t deter me. Already, I’m achieving a solid two-plus scalp-top vertical inches. And, god knows, I could use the extra height.

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March 28, 2006

Sucker

Put me on any flight longer than three hours, and, somewhere along the way, I’ll read the Sky Mall Catalogue cover to cover.

I’ve been doing so for at least a decade. And, in all that time, I’ve never actually purchased anything from it.

I do the same with a handful of other catalogues: Crate and Barrel, Herrington, Design Within Reach. When they appear in my mailbox, I can’t help but thumb my way through, will even dog-ear a page here and there, as if to convince myself that maybe, this time, despite years and years of uninterrupted experience to the contrary, I’ll actually whip out a credit card and put in and order.

And It isn’t just catalogues. Back before I killed my television, if I surfed past an infomercial – be it for ginsu knives, vacuum cleaners or ab machines – I’d inevitably watch it, transfixed, the rest of the way through.

I don’t know why I do, nor why I derive pleasure from simply considering without actually purchasing. But, given the number of flights I take each year, not buying any of those lusted-after Sky Mall items has doubtless already saved me thousands upon thousands of dollars.

So, when I finally do call in to order the indoor electric-powered waterfall fountain, I figure I’m totally, completely justified in buying the really, really big one.

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March 27, 2006

Mashed

I am, admittedly, both a snob and an alcoholic. Given the two, most people assume I must like scotch.

But, in truth, I’ve never really been a fan. In part because taking scotch too seriously as a twenty-something always strikes me as effortful, effete. And, in part, because I’m just not a fan of the way it tastes.

Still, every gentleman needs something to drink off the rocks, to sip neat. So, for years, I’ve been making my way through golden-brown beverage choices, looking for one to call my own.

I came close with cognac – but soon found even low-end choices to be prohibitively expensive across a drink-filled night about town. Barrel-aged rum, too, seemed a near fit, until I discovered the percentage of bars that stock nothing beyond Bacardi – acceptable on the rocks as a fifth drink of the evening, though less so as a first.

A month or so back, however, I discovered a definitive answer – one already sitting in my liquor cabinet.

Colin and I were six or seven hours into a late-night editing session, synching sound for Underground, staring at monitors full of Final Cut until our eyes had long since glazed. My liquor supplies having dwindled dangerously low, and in deference to Colin’s Kentucky roots, I pulled down from the back of the cabinet a bottle of Woodford Reserve – a bottle I’d received as a gift, and had left unopened for a year and change, knowing that I don’t like bourbon.

Or, rather, believing that I don’t like bourbon. Because, it turns out, I do. A lot. Some more than others – Woodford or Makers Mark seeming much more to my taste than, say, Knob Creek.

I haven’t yet had time to sample the wide array of base-level consumer choices, much less to test out the slew of high-end options. Still, I’m already sure bourbon is it – is my drink. It tastes right. It tastes like coming home.

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March 19, 2006