We're talking maybe pre-Napster, how many albums did you buy with your own money?
A lovely date (thus far consisting of a brief stint in a tea shop working, she reading in preparation for an interview and I writing, scrambling to not miss a deadline by too much) was made lovelier when, during a stop at the outdoor Shake Shack on 23rd St., I happened across three old high school friends. I saw the first of them by the booth ready to pick up his food and made a beeline (sorry, give me 2 seconds, I whispered to the poor girl) straight for him, my best friend during those four years, my erstwhile road trip companion, the other half of our main duo in the school play senior year, co-captain with me of the JV football team our sophomore year, man of many other distinctions. I slid next to him and remained incognito for maybe all of 3 seconds until he turned, noting someone, in typical New York City fashion, standing entirely too close, then broke out in a shout and we embraced in a massive bearhug. He immediately pointed out the two others and I raced over, dragging the date along. I introduced her, we briefly caught up, then I was advised to check out the line, as indeed there was a line that wound nearly to the entrance of the park. We dutifully occupied our spot after assurances that those Musketeers had no intention of leaving their table.
In line, we talked books and movies and (of course) high school, which was where I was introduced to such staples of 1990s, early 2000s staples of upper middle class het cis male ennui and bored violence as Fight Club and American Psycho. We came out of that subject a little bit more sympathetic towards the Brad Pitt/Ed Norton saga than the gutless nihilism of Bret Easton Ellis. My baby sister and I, perhaps prompted by the changing tenor of our online presence, have taken to no longer speaking disparagingly of certain majority demographics in hushed whispers. When the subject of Bret Easton Ellis came along, I and the girl spoke at length and without our library voices about how played out late-90s ennui-laden nihilism as expressed in Bret Easton Ellis novels was and how little sympathy it elicited and how culturally deleterious American Psycho the book was and how the facade it aimed to parody was so attractive to vapid young (white) males then and now that they hopped in their imaginary Ferraris and sped right past the satire to the ideal As Portrayed By Patrick Bateman. At some point, we got to talking about tv shows and I confessed that Seinfeld never did it for me; in fact, kinda repelled me, and the guy in front of us, finished my sentence, begun as "It's a show about absolutely--" "NOTHING" he said, grinning. The ensuing monologue from him did nothing to change my opinion on the show, nor did it push me even a little bit closer to possibly one day seeking out an episode. The talk wasn't all disparaging, I did praise David Foster Wallace, and the girl did have kind things to say about Fight Club.
We placed our orders, joined my friends and the introductions resumed in earnest. There was the beginning round of catching up, who worked where, who was married, who was in a relationship, where we lived, filling out the gaps in between Facebook status updates, and just as swiftly we sank back into our old, familiar grooves, laughing at all the right places, reading each other's minds on occasion, the conversation flowing as though graduation had been yesterday instead of 11 years ago.
Our totem buzzed and we collected our burgers and fries and my root beer and returned to the troop.
During our 5-year high school reunion, we had all finished college and were in the midst of or on our way to other endeavors. The careers in consulting had just begun, or others were taking a year off before grad school while others still were prepping for business school and others still had gotten into teaching. Potential in the course of being realized. By the 10-year, people are married, in the middle of their careers or already moving on to the next one. One classmate was involved in his third startup venture. And there's the stereotype that jealousy always haunts these sorts of gatherings, because "compare and despair." Everyone is doing better than you somehow.
But at that outdoor table at that Shake Shack with the weather as breezily balmy as it's ever been, any hints of envy had evaporated. Even as I sat with friends whose employment situations were, for the most part, much more secure than my own and whose financial stability was downright aspirational, not a whiff of covetousness.
Joy at seeing them again, so serendipitously after so long apart, and being able to show them off to someone else.
In line, we talked books and movies and (of course) high school, which was where I was introduced to such staples of 1990s, early 2000s staples of upper middle class het cis male ennui and bored violence as Fight Club and American Psycho. We came out of that subject a little bit more sympathetic towards the Brad Pitt/Ed Norton saga than the gutless nihilism of Bret Easton Ellis. My baby sister and I, perhaps prompted by the changing tenor of our online presence, have taken to no longer speaking disparagingly of certain majority demographics in hushed whispers. When the subject of Bret Easton Ellis came along, I and the girl spoke at length and without our library voices about how played out late-90s ennui-laden nihilism as expressed in Bret Easton Ellis novels was and how little sympathy it elicited and how culturally deleterious American Psycho the book was and how the facade it aimed to parody was so attractive to vapid young (white) males then and now that they hopped in their imaginary Ferraris and sped right past the satire to the ideal As Portrayed By Patrick Bateman. At some point, we got to talking about tv shows and I confessed that Seinfeld never did it for me; in fact, kinda repelled me, and the guy in front of us, finished my sentence, begun as "It's a show about absolutely--" "NOTHING" he said, grinning. The ensuing monologue from him did nothing to change my opinion on the show, nor did it push me even a little bit closer to possibly one day seeking out an episode. The talk wasn't all disparaging, I did praise David Foster Wallace, and the girl did have kind things to say about Fight Club.
We placed our orders, joined my friends and the introductions resumed in earnest. There was the beginning round of catching up, who worked where, who was married, who was in a relationship, where we lived, filling out the gaps in between Facebook status updates, and just as swiftly we sank back into our old, familiar grooves, laughing at all the right places, reading each other's minds on occasion, the conversation flowing as though graduation had been yesterday instead of 11 years ago.
Our totem buzzed and we collected our burgers and fries and my root beer and returned to the troop.
During our 5-year high school reunion, we had all finished college and were in the midst of or on our way to other endeavors. The careers in consulting had just begun, or others were taking a year off before grad school while others still were prepping for business school and others still had gotten into teaching. Potential in the course of being realized. By the 10-year, people are married, in the middle of their careers or already moving on to the next one. One classmate was involved in his third startup venture. And there's the stereotype that jealousy always haunts these sorts of gatherings, because "compare and despair." Everyone is doing better than you somehow.
But at that outdoor table at that Shake Shack with the weather as breezily balmy as it's ever been, any hints of envy had evaporated. Even as I sat with friends whose employment situations were, for the most part, much more secure than my own and whose financial stability was downright aspirational, not a whiff of covetousness.
Joy at seeing them again, so serendipitously after so long apart, and being able to show them off to someone else.