Signal Problems
I was leaning on the door of the train (yes, I know this was dangerous, but I have been doing it my whole life and I have yet to fall out and sweet Christ do I pray for that to happen every time) and my stop was coming up so I turned around to face the windows when, with that sixth sense you have that your bubble is about to be burst going into overdrive, I felt that someone next to me was about to say something. I turned and someone said, “How are you?”
When this happens on the train it can only be one of three things. One, it’s someone you know. This is rare, which is one of the great things about New York: No matter how many people you know, your chances of running into any of them out and about are surprisingly slim. I’ve lived in the same neighborhood for two literal decades now and I have bumped into people near my home on average less than once a year. It’s like a dream.
Anyway, this was some sweet-faced kid in his early twenties, which immediately ruled that out, since no one I know has a sweet face anymore, even the young people. (Sorry, young people I know. You would have found out eventually, if not from me then from the mirror. Better you hear it first from your pal Al: Those rosy cheeks and bright eyes are sunken and sullen now. You can of course blame everything that’s going on but let’s not pretend you haven’t brought a bit of it on yourselves too.)
So the second possibility is what we would refer to as a “disability,” which tells you a lot about what we consider “abled,” because it means that you’ve somehow managed to retain in your personality the guilelessness and kindness that the rest of us couldn’t wait to shed on our journey to the brusque remoteness we confuse for sophistication. This is always the most fraught encounter because it reactivates the better part of you but leaves you feeling a terrible and abiding sadness which is complicated by the realization that you are a) also possibly being condescending for feeling sad but you b) can’t help feeling that anyway.
In any event, I did not have to think about that for too long because he (you are forgiven for forgetting where we were in this story; my discursive manner and digressive storytelling style sometimes leaves even me wondering where I was in the narrative, so I will simply remind you that in this case someone on the subway had just said “How are you?” to me. It is not exactly the stuff of action movies but you are not exactly subscribed to The Journal of American Frenzy, are you? Although if such a thing exists and you indeed are please pass along the URL, I would be very interested in reading it. It can’t just be 24/7 despair over here, although it pretty much is, so I don’t know why I’m pretending like that’s not a possibility. But again, I am wandering off. Scene: Train. Personae: Me, guy. Dialogue, him: “How are you?” Okay, back to the drama:) looked at me again and said, “Big game today.” To which I replied, “Is that right?” And he nodded and said, “Barcelona.” Which of course is the third possibility for this interaction: Someone from out of town. He was indeed wearing red, which is a team color and fairly close to the extent of my knowledge about Barcelona (a word, by the way, that those of us of a certain age cannot come across without hearing it sung loudly by Freddie Mercury & Montserrat Caballé in our heads) and as we both exited into the sunshine I felt for a second like everything was going to be okay. A big part of the reason I live here is because we all agree to leave each other alone but it is the very occasional incidents where people breach your defenses (in a friendly way) that remind you that maybe not everyone sucks as badly as you do.
What is the point of this story? I wish I knew. Today’s topic of discussion was going to be this:
But I got as far as writing the first few lines
It seemed grimly appropriate that the Pulitzers—the only remaining award that makes the Tonys seem vital and relevant—were announced on the same day that virtually every organization that presents itself as “news” was filled with recaps of “Game of Thrones,” articles about “Game of Thrones,” stories of how various news organizations were covering “Game of Thrones,” analysis of the traffic effects of “Game of Thrones,” etc.
before I had to run out and then I had the moment on the train. It was essentially going to be a long (and, obviously, brilliant) analysis of the current media scene that pointed out, in a way no one has yet, that everyone who thinks they are in the “first draft of history” business is just fooling themselves, because really they are in the “last gasp of Westeros” business and no matter what the rank-and-file of the fourth estate think they’re doing these days the strategic planners pushing elf incest zone-flooding know that as soon as we have a different president people are going to look at the $15 a month they’re paying for coronary-inducing tabloid reportage alerts and think, “Why the fuck do I need this anymore?” With even the dowdiest burgher in Appleton, Wisconsin knowing where to get (and how to use) pomegranate vinegar these days you can see why newsroom leadership is desperately throwing things at the wall to find whatever will keep people paying apart from cooking and crosswords once nobody wants to worry about democracy anymore, and if that means spending $200 a year for an opportunity to hop on a videochat where Paul Krugman and Sheryl Gay Stolberg debate the finer points of “Big Little Lies Season Two” who is to say there’s not a business opportunity there? (There’s not but you can’t blame them for trying. People thought gravity blankets were the future once too.)
But you know what? Who gives a shit? It’s really nice out! Things will still be terrible next week, and if past experience is any indication, they will probably be even worse. It’s too nice to sit indoors and go on about how awful everything is. I am going to step outside and get some sun on my face. But don’t worry, I will not talk to strangers, and if we see each other out there I promise to pretend I didn’t notice you. I know you’ll do the same.
Okay, that’s all I got. This is not, by the way, the real newsletter yet. That will be considerably more focused and much more incisive, if that is even possible. Plus I’m really going to amp up the despair quotient in future editions, I feel like I’ve been letting the side down in that department. Anyway, as ever, I thank you for your attention.