Friday. March 28, 2014. At the barber’s.
Sometimes middle-age seems like a daily reminder that somebody declared the game over and not only didn’t you win but the whole time you were playing you didn’t know the rules.
While the winners are gleefully collecting their prizes and posing for photographs, you’re left standing there begging for one more turn.
That, by the way, is the short version of my explanation for the rise of the Tea Party, but never mind.
But reading New York Magazine, which I happen to be doing while waiting for the Mannion guys to get their haircuts, intensifies that feeling. It’s like the editors declare the game over every week and have started a new one while you weren’t paying attention and you’re already way behind.
It doesn’t matter that what the editors seem to count as winning---life as a hanger-on in the various worlds of celebrity, political, financial, and cultural, that rule the city---not only doesn’t seem like a prize, it’s looks exactly like Sartre’s idea of hell. You lost! You’re old and out of it. Nobody’s going to invite you to the party. Go back home to Scarsdale and try to pretend you’re living the life you wish you were living here.
Switching to Car & Driver.