today’s poem

On Being Twenty-Six
by Philip Larkin

I feared these present years,
The middle twenties,
When deftness disappears,
And each event is
Freighted with a source-encrusting doubt,
And turned to drought.

I thought: this pristine drive
Is sure to flag
At twenty-four or -five;
And now the slag
Of burnt-out childhood proves that I was right.
What caught alight

Quickly consumed in me,
As I foresaw.
Talent, felicity ó
These things withdraw,
And are succeeded by a dingier crop
That come to stop;

Or else, certainly gone,
Perhaps the rest,
Tarnishing, linger on
As second-best.
Fabric of fallen minarets is trash.
And in the ash

Of what has pleased and passed
Is now no more
Than struts of greed, a last
Charred smile, a clawed
Crustacean hatred, blackened pride ñ of such
I once made much.

And so, if I were sure
I have no chance
To catch again that pure
Unnoticed stance,
I would calcine the outworn properties,
Live on what is.

But it dies hard, that world;
Or, being dead,
Putrescently is pearled,
For I, misled,
Make on my mind the deepest wound of all:
Think to recall

At any moment, states
Long since dispersed;
That if chance dissipates
The best, the worst
May scatter equally upon a touch.
I kiss, I clutch,

Like a daft mother, putrid
Infancy,
That can and will forbid
All grist to me
Except devaluing dichotomies:
Nothing, and paradise.

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wisdom from tea

Some things I’ve learned in my recent Coffee Shop spree:

1. Time from drinking an entire Venti China Green Tips Tazo Tea to needing to pee, really, really bad: approximately one hour, fifteen minutes.

2. Consequences of making a bathroom trip to relieve tea-full bladder: this being New York (and therefore, simply asking someone to watch my laptop not being a real possibility), having to unplug and pack up laptop, and – worse – having to sacrifice prime outlet-adjacent table space, all for that stupid ninety second trip.

3. Symptoms of therefore trying to tough my way through the increasingly full bladder (in order of chronological occurrence): frequent seat shifting, tapping foot spastically, pressing knees together, autistic-like rocking, cold sweats, burst bladder, unconsciousness, death. (Note: all symptoms after cold sweats projected rather than previously experienced.)

4. Time the hot girl who looks sort of like Pocahontas shows most days to work at the corner table near the front window: between 1:00pm and 2:15pm.

5. Number of times furtive eye contact has been made with Pocahontas over the past two weeks: countless.

6. Likelihood of me stopping being such a fucking pansy and just going over and introducing myself: frankly, not good.

7. Likelihood of me instead walking over to the table of Inconsiderate Cell Phone Guy, picking up his skim latte, and pouring it over his head: better than the Pocahontas odds to begin with, and increasing rapidly.

8. Strategic thought of the day: pouring said latte onto ICPG would be an excellent conversation starter with the lovely Pocahontas.

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breaking points

Saturday night, Colin held a small 25th birthday shindig at the fine Virgil’s Real BBQ in Times Square, involving countless pitchers of beer, several extremely large plates of hush puppies, and Colin putting in a remarkably strong showing against the Pig Out dinner sampler, affectionately nicknamed ‘the tour of mammals’.

Though the party degenerated into general drunken merriment on our roof, in a sober conversation earlier in the day, Colin admitted to being slightly freaked out by hitting the quarter of a century mark. And, with my own birthday just weeks away (July 16th, hint, hint), I similarly spent much of Sunday angsting about what turning 25 means, where I’m headed in life, where I want to go – in short, all the various and sundry sorts of possible soul-searching.

But, having observed friends of all ages, I don’t think Colin and I are unusual in having 25 angst. In fact, I’m now fairly certain that there are at least two big, scary ages, and that what those two ages are precisely largely breaks down by gender.

For guys, 25 is the first, as it signals the end (or, rather, should, though rarely actually does) of drunken collegiate stupidity. There’s a sense amongst guy friends that, up to 25, everything is sort of a warm-up lap, doesn’t actually count in the grand scheme of things. But, at 25, we’re suddenly playing for keeps. Marriage starts seeming like a real possibility. Jobs are swapped for ‘careers’. A general plan, a basic route through life, starts falling into place.

The second guy freak-out, then, is at 40, the first time that we, after blithely rolling full-throttle ahead on our laid-at-25 plans, stop and consider whether those were the right plans after all. Then, as they almost certainly weren’t, there’s the realization that wholesale reinvention would take altogether too much work, and that it would be vastly simpler to simply buy an overpriced sports car while pushing any nagging doubts into the back of our collective male unconscious.

Girls, on the other hand, blaze through 25 without batting an eyelash, only really slowing down at 30. Or, more precisely, at 29 – while we guys lack the foresight to start freaking out early, not really worrying about big issues into they’re shoved down our throat, girls, looking foreword, see 30 coming and start freaking out at least a full year in advance. Thirty’s a particularly big age for unmarried women, because, by then, there’s a definite sense that their friends are snatching up ‘the good ones’, and that, increasingly, their own love lives involve scraping towards the bottom of the guy barrel. So, the unmarrieds tend to go one of two routes: deciding that perhaps romance needn’t be like a movie, and settling for the first guy who doesn’t hit them or scratch himself (much) in public; or deciding that, actually, romance does need be like a movie, and that they’re willing to wait out for the real thing.

This second group, the ‘I’m okay with my life as it is, and I don’t need a guy to fill some gaping void in it, though, if a good one came along, that would be great’ group, then coasts along until 35 (or, again, more accurately, 34). At that point, the biological clock starts ticking increasingly loudly, and the sense of having all sorts of time gets replaced with a sense of having an ever-shrinking window for practical baby-popping. Usually, this group of girls has spent years convincing themselves that perhaps they don’t want kids anyway, and, having to constantly argue that fact against insistent ovaries (from what I’ve seen, a losing battle) is at the crux of the crisis and self-reinvention 34/35 requires.

At least, that’s how I see it.

Still, in my own life, I’m pleased to say I emerged from this weekend’s soul-searching with a slightly refined, though basically consistent, life vision. I’m hoping it holds for the next three weeks, until my birthday itself (again, July 16th, hint, hint), at which point I’m sure I’ll be tossed back to angstful ground zero, spending all day curled in the fetal position under the covers, rocking, sucking my thumb, and muttering quietly to myself.

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selling out

About six months back, I discovered that I can actually be fairly productive. The thing is, I also discovered that I can only be fairly productive when removed from my desk.

Normally, I’m an inveterate multi-tasker. I can’t do just one thing at a time, and, as a result, often end up doing too little of too many things to actually ever get any of them done.

The discovery, though, was that if I pull myself outside of my usual work environment (by parking in a coffee shop, or coffeeing in a local park), I can suddenly focus in on a single project and blaze away.

Based on that revelation, I became a regular at the Coffee Pot, a cute little independent coffee shop around the corner from my house. Then, after a while, I also started occasionally heading to Starbucks (around the corner in the other direction) – for variety.

But there was a problem. After a few visits, I realized that I actually liked Starbucks better than the Coffee Pot. And I felt oddly terrible about that. I mean, I always root for the underdog, and the long-standing Coffee Pot (by now, a Hell’s Kitchen institution) was certainly the David of this fight, warding off the evil, multinational, McHomogenizing Goliath that is Starbucks, Inc.

I knew that, I really did. But the chairs at Starbucks were more comfortable, and the music was much, much better. The Coffee Pot played crappy local radio, whereas the Starbucks around the corner one afternoon cycled through a set including Lucinda Williams, Death Cab for Cutie, Clem Snide, Guster and Neutral Milk Hotel – none of which would ever, ever pop up on New York radio, despite having regular places in my own playlist rotations.

And then, of course, there was the broadband thing. As a T-Mobile customer, adding unlimited HotSpot service was relatively cheap, meaning I could stop into nearly any Starbucks in the city, pick up their wi-fi, and get to work. At the Coffee Pot, I’d used my cell phone as a wireless modem, and made do with the pokey dial-up speed. But after years of broadband, stepping back to (circa 1995) 24kpbs was more than a bit painful.

So, the chairs, the music, the wi-fi, it all added up. And by now, I’m a Starbucks regular who occasionally hits the Coffee Pot, rather than the other way around. Still, I have discovered that if I ask for a single tea bag, they’ll give me a Venti tea for the price of a Tall. Sure, I feel like a douche-bag every time I say “Venti” to one of the baristas, but it’s entirely worth it; I may still be shopping at Starbucks, but fifty cent discount by fifty cent discount, I’m doing my small part in sticking it to the man.

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familial congratulations

To my father: For being upgraded to full professor at Stanford, despite not actually (at least as far as I can tell) doing any teaching or research.

To my mother: For, this past weekend, attaining her PhD, despite already having amassed so much experience in the area that other students in the same program were citing her papers as seminal work in the field.

To my brother: For, unexpectedly, getting a job here in New York for the summer (having gone in to speak with a prominent real estate developer in the city, just to pick his brain about the industry, and being told, “you’re a cocky little bastard. Want to work here?”), and for very quickly putting a life (apartment, etc.) in place here in New York, even if, in the process, he lost his cell phone, and also got really drunk at Otis, the bar around my corner, culminating in him baring his ass cheeks on request of a bachelorette party also drinking heavily at the same bar.

To my self: For finally being able to climb the Elias route on Rat Rock in Central Park, even if I did get stuck partway up, and while pausing to regroup and chalk my hands, have a six year old wearing Spiderman face paint run up behind me yelling, “hey, mister, do you need help? I can save you, I’m Spiderman!”

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fits to a t

ìWhen trouble arises and things look bad, there is always one individual who perceives a solution and is willing to take command. Very often, that individual is crazy.î
ñ Dave Barry

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price check

Sitting on the stoop yesterday with Colin and Yoav, we got to discussing FreshDirect. While Colin and I had both used the service heavily when it started out, both of us had fallen off it. Colin, who had just ordered from them again for the first time in months, was unhappy to see that they tacked on a $4.95 delivery charge – something they’d done from the start, though about which he had forgotten. Making matters worse, he wasn’t even sure that FreshDirect was any cheaper than our local supermarkets.

And, in fact, neither was I, which is why I stopped using the service. But, to be honest, I didn’t really have a clue – it just seemed like it might have been more expensive. So, in a bout of curiosity, I decided to investigate. I present the results here, in what Colin has kindly describe Manual Froogle:

Food
Fresh Direct
Food Emp.
Grist.
Amish Market
Stiles Market
Cheerios (15oz) 4.19 4.99 5.19 5.69
Milk (1/2 Gallon) 1.99 2.27 2.39 2.39
Jumbo Eggs (Dozen) 1.69 2.59 1.69 2.49 1.29
Salmon (per lb) 5.99 9.99 6.99 8.99
Rib Eye, Choice (per lb) 9.99 14.59 15.99 11.99
Chicken Breast (per lb) 4.39 6.59 4.99 5.49
Strawberries (16oz) 2.99 4.99 3.99 2.49 1.50
Bananas (per lb) 0.49 0.99 0.59 0.59 0.29
Navel Oranges (each) 0.49 0.74 0.99 0.69
Vine Tomatoes (per lb) 2.49 2.99 2.29 1.49 1.5
Haas Avocado (each) 1.99 2.50 1.99 1.79
Thom.’ English Muffins (6 ct) 2.69 2.89 2.89 2.89
Tropicana OJ (64oz) 2.59 3.89 3.99 3.49
Progresso Chx Soup (19oz) 2.39 2.69 2.59 3.19
De Cecco Spaghetti (16oz) 1.19 2.19 1.5 1.98
Delivery Fee 4.95
Total 50.50 64.89 58.06 55.64
% Overpay 28% 15% 10%

As you can see, almost every item was cheaper at FreshDirect, except for two items on sale at Gristedes, and the few items I could pick up at the local farmers market.

Food Emporium, where I’m embarrassed to admit that, due to proximity, I’d been doing much of my shopping, came out by far the worst. And the Amish Market, which I’d always reserved for special occasion shopping, due to a belief that it was somewhat overpriced, actually came in second best.

Further, this seems to be a clear case of not getting what you pay for, as the steaks I’ve previously purchased from FreshDirect or the Amish Market (the cheapest two) were by far the best of the bunch.

So, there you have it. I will, undoubtedly, be returning to using FreshDirect regularly, as, even with the $4.95 delivery fee tacked on, it’s the cost-effective choice, and, from my experience, delivers the best quality of the bunch.

Plus, I don’t even have to get off my ass to do my shopping. That’s what I call a win-win situation.

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a night out

6:00pm
Meet one of Cyan’s investment bankers down on Astor Place, chat about progress on raising our film fund.

6:30pm
Head to NYU’s Tisch School for panel on the business of film. Roll eyes frequently at moderator’s inane questions and panelists’ equally inane answers.

7:15pm
Skip out of panel early. Head down to Stellar Network event honoring Philip Seymour Hoffman. Drink several vodka sours at the open vodka bar. Talk with three different women who actually end conversations with ‘my people will talk to your people’ or ‘let’s do lunch’.

9:00pm
Head over to Serena (under the Chelsea Hotel) for drinks with Coro Fellow Ari Wallach, to discuss both a TV show he’s pulling together, and a network he’s building of young leaders interested in shaping broader culture by careful introduction of memes. Discover he’s having drinks later this week with Leah Katz, who bought me in a kissing rally when I was in tenth grade, and on whom I had a monster crush.

11:00pm
Join my brother and my cousin Jason at Otis, a bar around the corner from my house, for bad beer and even worse game of pool. Embarrass ourselves thoroughly by making much-too-loud snide comments about other patrons.

12:00pm
Head a few blocks up to underground bar Single Room Occupancy to meet up with my lovely friend Tova. Observe amusedly as Jason and my brother both try to put the moves on the bartender.

12:30pm
While outside talking on the phone, watch as the cops pull up in front of the bar, clearly thinking someone is throwing a monster party in their basement. “It’s a bar,” I shout to them. They ask the name and how long it’s been there, and, apparently satisfied by my slightly slurred answers, drive off.

2:00pm
Stagger home. Manage to insert key into door on only the third attempt. Someone seems to have quadrupled the number of stairs between the front door and my third floor apartment.

8:00am
Wake up for morning meeting, noting that my eyelids feel literally stuck together by the gummy still-drunkenness of my eyeballs. Hit the shower. Rinse, repeat.

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