MOMENTS IN TIME : JANUARY 1, 2000

A REFLECTION

Sometimes memories return to me with uncanny clarity. It is not just the clarity that strikes me. More often I wonder why certain memories return to me so long after the event. After all, of all the things I have experienced in my life, why would one day's details suddenly reemerge? What triggered it? And then a more vexing thought crosses my mind: As clear as my memory seems to me, perhaps reality was very different from what I remember? Who can say now? That is one reason why memory fascinates me so much. It is exquisitely subjective. It seems real, but only to ourselves.

I got up this morning and suddenly remembered December 31, 1999. On that day, I worked from morning to night and beyond. Back then, I was a 22-year-old kid with a "bowl haircut" and a jean jacket. I wore ripped $30 pants for days at a time. I was a college senior who memorized Nietzsche quotes without fully comprehending them. I basically had no money; my mother gave me about $20 a week to spend. So starting in 1997 I worked as a DJ to make a few extra bucks. Much to my good fortune, I met a much older guy named Joe who had been DJ'ing parties around the city for decades. He used to tell me stories about going home with women after disco parties in the 1970s. He was a Vietnam veteran and--to be kind--rather eccentric. He lived alone in a food-strewn apartment on 122nd Street brimming with records and 5 or 6 yappy Chihuahuas (one or two died over the years; but a few more were born, so I can't remember the exact number). Basically, the place was squalid. But somehow Joe kept getting gigs and holding his life together really well. He kept a zillion post-it notes all over his bedroom to remind him to do this and that each day--and he always got it done. For years, we worked really well together. He farmed me out to jobs he couldn't do and I gave him a cut of what I made. Plus we became really good friends.

Both Joe and I knew that New Year's Eve on Y2K would be a gangbuster night for DJ's. After all, everyone was partying that night. Some people thought the world was going to end. I knew it wouldn't. But it was an unprecedented atmosphere. And most importantly, entertainers like us were in demand that night. So we could charge huge fees and we knew people would pay. We could name our price for a change.

Joe wound up scheduling a $2000 job. At the same time, he booked me a job for $1800. We agreed I would get $1500. He would take a $300 commission. That seemed fair to me; in fact, I was thrilled. For a kid who wore torn pants and got $20 a week to spend, $1500 was a treasure trove. I could live the whole semester on that--and all for just one night's work.

I remember the job exactly. We did it in a brand new loft apartment on 21st Street near 6th Avenue. Some nouveau riche woman and her husband were throwing a party. Joe and I drove down to the apartment the morning before the gig to set up. Joe drove a virtually unroadworthy mid-80s Chevy station wagon. It had no muffler and a pretty disgusting, food-like crust clung like a glaze all over the interior. The car had roaches. And Joe stuffed in so many speakers, wires, amps and record crates into it that I was amazed the bumper didn't scrape the pavement as we drove. In short, despite all appearances, Joe was a master of limited space management. The cops never pulled the jalopy over, either.

I remember schlepping all our equipment two flights up to the apartment. The woman and her husband were frantically decorating the place and setting up long tables for the hors d'oeuvres. I had a few words with her. She said she liked hip-hop and R&B. I said that was great because "that was my specialty." She seemed to like me. She didn't seem to like Joe too much, though. After all, at first glance he looked really gruff and he spent his time hauling speakers and wires all over the place. He was always polite and even charming. But he just didn't look the part. Some customers really used to treat him badly, and that hurt me.

After we set up the equipment, Joe and I sat in the car for a few minutes and talked about the plan for the evening. I would show up at the gig and do my thing. He would go to his gig and do his. Then he would pick me up from my gig and I would give him his cut. We would drive back uptown together and call it a night around 4 AM. It was a good plan. We then went our separate ways.

I remember the party went very smoothly. I got to play the music I wanted. The crowd was easy and did not complain. My DJ station faced east; the crowd looked west out the windows over 6th Avenue. Joe set up the lights and I controlled them with a little hand console. It took a while for the alcohol to get the party moving; eventually it did. I started off playing 70s funk and rare grooves. That gave a nice ambiance to the early part. Later, people started asking me to play hip-hop and assorted Top Ten pop. I obliged. I remember one Asian chick kept asking me to play Lauren Hill's "That Thing" over and over again. That tune always generated a huge crowd response, so I waited to play it until the place was really hopping. I kept telling her "it was in the pipe." She never quarreled with me; she just kept going back to her friends and dancing.

Before midnight, nervous excitement came over the room. People started wondering aloud whether the world would end at 12:01. I remember people throwing their drinks and hooting in the minutes leading up to midnight. I also remember looking outside and seeing helicopters flying low over the city with spotlights on. There was a lot of honking and yelling on the street below. I could hear it even over the music. Finally, 12:01 came. Nothing happened. A huge cheer went up on the dancefloor. Then the party went into overdrive. "Hypnotize," "Walking on the Sun" and "Backstreet's Back" were particularly popular that night. Oh, and of course "Groove is in the Heart" and "It Takes Two" made everyone move, too, even otherwise respectable-looking bourgeois with jobs: I always laughed when I saw white bankers singing along to rap songs. But by that point at the party, the alcohol was guaranteed to make everyone dance, no matter what was playing. Even so, as a DJ, I felt like I had accomplished something. Lots of drunk, happy people profusely thanked me for "all the great tunes" as the evening approached its end. It was always a nice perk to get compliments, even if the partygoers were fall-down drunk and virtually incoherent.

At about 3 AM, Joe showed up from his party. People had already started to leave. Beer and broken plastic cups littered the dancefloor, along with squashed finger foods and dirty napkins. Everyone was shouting, hugging, hooting, caressing and laughing. The mood was very good. Almost all the food was gone and the wine was running low. Joe went over to the hostess and whispered to her. She then came over to me and told me it was OK to start wrapping up.

Within 30 minutes, almost everyone had left and I stopped the music. The house lights came up. Joe started breaking down the lights and sound equipment. I chatted with the hostess for a while. She complimented me in the highest terms, even though she was utterly shitfaced. I still felt like I had done a good job; for my part, I did not touch a drink that evening. I had a few Sprites and some ice water. Finally, the hostess pulled out an enormous wad of $20 bills and handed it to me. I thanked her. She went away and I started helping Joe move all our stuff downstairs. Meanwhile, the hostess and her husband started brushing trash off the floor with two big push brooms.

It took us a good 30 minutes to haul all our stuff downstairs. We loaded it into the car and--once again--got it all to fit. After that, Joe and I shook hands and congratulated each other on a job well done. I handed him his $300 commission. Then he headed back uptown and he dropped me off at my dorm on 114th Street and Riverside. I wished Joe a happy new year and thanked him for being so generous to me. He said no problem and drove off into the predawn darkness.

I went upstairs to my room on the fourth floor. There was no way I could sleep after the night's toils. It was about quarter to five in the morning, January 1, 2000. I walked over to my single-size mattress. I took the enormous cash wad from my pocket and laid all the money out on the bedspread. I was in awe: $1500 in cash, all for me. I never thought I could ever make that much in one night. It was unbelievable. What a way to start the new year, the new decade, the new millennium. I felt like life could not get any better than this. I even felt that time had suddenly stopped, as if I could never get older, that this moment would last forever. After all, it was the year 2000! To that point in my life--indeed, in everyone's life--it had always been the 20th Century. I couldn't really fathom that life would go on as it always did. On that night, time froze as I sat there ogling my massive money pile. For a few hours, I felt utterly invincible. I felt that I controlled time and that I would never age.

I was hungry. I went out to get some food at Tom's Diner. It was extremely quiet. All the partying was over. A few stragglers appeared here and there, but that was it. I saw a few "2000" party eyeglasses in a trash can. It was still dark. As I headed down Broadway, a New York Times truck pulled up and a man tossed out the morning edition. I bought one. It had an unforgettably bold headline: 1/1/00. Underneath, in typeface almost as big, was a headline saying that Russia's President Yeltsin had resigned. A new man, Putin, was taking over.

Wow, I thought, everything was looking up! It was a fresh new morning in a fresh new millennium. I had $1500 in cash and there was a new Russian President. One era ended. Another was dawning. Time stood still and I was in control.

Then I went to Tom's and ordered a shake and fries. I stayed there for a while. I let myself get tired. Finally, I headed back to my dorm to go to sleep. It was dawning. Time for bed. It was a good night.

I still have never made that much money in one night as I did on January 1, 2000. I think that's why I remember it so vividly. It felt really good.

Too bad life got harder after that. But on that night, I didn't think anything could ever go wrong.

MY TEETH ARE DOOMED

AN ESSAY

I am getting older. Every day, time leaves new marks on my body. When the light shines a certain way, I notice time's inscriptions. Lines emanate away from my eyes, especially when I smile. I have more wrinkles on my forehead. My hands are starting to look cracked, crooked and worn. Hair is sprouting up in places I'd rather not discuss. And my teeth aren't so pearly white anymore; in fact, I can feel them getting weaker by the week.

Our bodies doomed to decay. That's the problem with bodies. Beauty and youth please us. But we understand how fleeting they are. We understand that time is never on our side. When we see a beautiful person, we know they won't be so forever. It's all just a matter of time before remorseless months and years erode even the supplest beauties.

Aging is a natural process. But that doesn't make it any more appealing to us. Death is a natural process too; and very few people like death, either. Still, natural processes can be both scary and reassuring. They are scary because no one wants to get old and die. On the other hand, they are reassuring because everyone reliably knows they will happen. Just as everyone knows a flower will wilt and turn brown, so too does everyone know that we all will die one day. That is just what happens in nature. You can see it. And you can apply it to your own life. It is rhythmic. You can count on it.

But let's get back to the scary part. While nature might provide us analogies to understand what will happen to us in the end, it is no less unpleasant to consider. We are, after all, rather vain creatures. We do not like the idea that our youth and appeal may one day fade. We do not like the idea that our beauty will wilt like the flowers in the garden. We experience so many pleasures in youth. And God forbid that time will steal them from us. It is not a pleasant thought.

Still, we must confront it. I confront it a little bit every day when I notice the new little injuries time has left upon me. In a strange way, it makes me reflective. When I notice something going wrong with my body, it makes me remember how long I've been here. It makes me remember how much I've seen and experienced. I go back through the years and I remember the times when my body did not ache the way it does now. I remember when there was no hair in the places it grows now. Our bodies are like fossils; and our memory confirms to us how long we have been here. Although I do not like the idea that I am decaying, I can at least take some pride in the idea that I have made it this far.

Having said all this, my teeth are doomed. I think they are even more doomed than the rest of my body. My constant coffee abuse, advancing age, lack of insurance and insufficient funds portend a dental disaster of unspeakable magnitude. Last year, I managed to scrape up enough money to get an examination, along with a cleaning and whitening (I am still paying interest on the visits). The dentist scraped unbelievable amounts of plaque from places in my mouth I barely knew existed. Then she flossed mysterious cracks in those unknown regions. She drew blood almost every time she hit the gum.

Toward the end, she said: "It's been a while since your last visit, hasn't it?" Then she offered me some Tylenol.

My poor, doomed teeth. It does not help that I have English ancestry. Genetically, the English have bad teeth. My own circumstances make my naturally bad genetic situation even worse. Every day, I notice my gums getting whiter. There are stains between a couple teeth that were not there before. And I can feel my teeth moving in my gumline in a way I have never felt before. Plus, they tell me I have impacted molars that must be removed before they burrow into my nerves. Put simply, I am in dire dental trouble.

But this is what happens when you get older. Time brutally flogs our bodies. There is little we can do about it. It just happens. Sure, we can live as healthy as we possibly can. We can eat right, exercise and even think positively about the future. But these are mere salves: Nothing can stop time's slow, steady, corrosive assault on our flesh.

It would be nice to escape our bodies for a while. While our bodies might offer numerous ways to experience the world's pleasures, they are also enormously restrictive. They can produce as much pain as pleasure. Time's corrosion is just another terror our bodies must confront. Still, it is so easy to put trust in our bodies. It is banal in the truest sense. We know our bodies better than anything else in our lives. We are stuck with them. We see them every day. We monitor them and scrutinize them. We must endure their chemical tempests and painful discomforts. They matter to us because they place insistent demands on us: Feed me; relieve me; give me rest; make me comfortable; make me feel pleasure. If we ignore them, we suffer pain for it. And we learn from earliest memory that pain is not good. So we slavishly pander to our bodies.

It is no accident that the law targets the body. Almost everyone cares about his own body. If there is something no man wants to experience, it is bodily discomfort. So the law threatens to inflict bodily discomfort on anyone who transgresses its commands. While some exceptional people hold their bodies in contempt, they are too rare to make a difference. The law concerns itself with efficacy: It knows that almost everyone fears bodily punishment, so that is what it threatens to maintain order.

So we spend our lives worrying about our bodies until time slowly eradicates them. It is quite a pathetic lot if you think about it. Still, it is completely natural. As living organisms, we want to stay alive. To stay alive, we must preserve our bodies. We fear death largely because it means we can no longer enjoy what life has to offer our bodies. We know that we will die in time because we see what time does to others' bodies. So we fear aging, because we know what it leads to.

But what about life beyond the body? Is it possible to achieve some mental satisfaction without worrying about the body's inevitable decay? Throughout history, we find examples of men who did not put all their faith in bodily comfort. There have been men who lived for something beyond placating their bodies and avoiding death. In fact, we tend to revere men who lived beyond their bodies because they are so rare. It is no accident that Jesus Christ is the central hero in Western Civilization: He gave up his body so that others could enjoy theirs. There is a nobility in life beyond the body because so few people can effectively ignore their bodies. Most people fear aging and death. Most people simply live to experience the pleasures the body can give. Love it or hate it, that is just how we are.

I am no martyr. I am just as worried about my body as the next man. But I fear pain more than I fear death. I wish I could hold my body in contempt. Yet the body is rapaciously insistent; it is difficult to ignore its demands for long. No matter how strongly I believe in abstract principles and ideas, I cannot say whether I could maintain my commitment to them in the face of torture, hunger or agony. I am worried about my hair and my teeth, for goodness' sake; imagine how I would feel if confronted with genuine bodily scourges?

But death is different than pain. Pain is about the body and its limitations. Death is about existence and non-existence. Death rules out the body altogether. In that light, it is easier to romanticize non-existence than pain. In fact, non-existence lends itself much more to abstract principles than mere contempt for the body. Death frees us from concern about the body. Death liberates us from the body's incessant demands and penalties. True, death might cut short our ability to experience the body's joys. But it also forecloses the body's ability to torment us any longer. There is some objective, rational appeal to that possibility. If bodily life--on the whole-- appears to offer more pain than pleasure, why go on living at all? It is better to cease to exist in order to avoid pain than to exist for nothing more than pain.

Yet this broaches another conundrum: What if death does not end our pain? After all, no one has ever reported to us what death is like. No one has come back from that "undiscover'd country from whose bourn/ No traveler returns." Hamlet, Act III, sc. i, lines 80-81. We have all seen aging and pain because living people experience aging and pain. We see what happens to them. They can tell us how bad they feel.

But no one has experienced death and lived to tell about it. Who knows what awaits us there. That is what makes people fear death: Unknowability. Maybe something dreadful happens once we die. No one knows. No one can know. No one can sense anything once they die, let alone communicate what they sense. And that is why death continues to terrify us. So as bad as bodily life may be, we choose to "bear what ills we have,/ [rather] Than fly to others that we know not of." Hamlet, Act III, sc. i, lines 82-83.

I have argued before that it is unreasonable to fear death because death cuts short our bodily ability to sense anything. http://reasoncommercejustice.blogspot.com/2009/05/why-we-fear-death.html. But once again, we see that humans are not invariably reasonable. They fear death even though death eliminates their sensory capacities--including the capacity to experience pain--because they fear the unknown. That fear is not reasonable because reason is based in human sense. Death obliterates sense, so it is not reasonable to fear it.

It is actually more reasonable to fear aging than death. We can sense our bodies aging. We can feel our bodies weakening. We know that aging will bring us more pain and less bodily satisfaction. We can sense all these things. Our reason has something to grasp in that situation.

I reasonably worry about my teeth. I have every reason to believe they are doomed. And I know it's going to hurt.

But with death: Who knows what I'll feel? That is strangely reassuring.

PEOPLE UNITED FOR A SHIRTLESS ABERCROMOCRACY UNDER LAW

A STATEMENT OF POLITICAL PHILOSOPHY

By : Mr. Archer D. Whipporwhorol IV, Party Spokesman and Abercrombie & Fitch Model; Age 18; pure Anglo-Saxon ancestry dating to 986 AD; Fifth-generation student, The Bluemeadow School, Upper Valeridge, New York (Specialization in Lacrosse and Croquet); Owner of 56 pair of flip-flops, 34 button-down shirts, 76 adjustable-collar polo-style shirts, 18 pair of torn jeans, 27 pair of cargo-style knee-length shorts, 34 assorted bracelets and necklaces, 86 pair of khaki trousers; Member, Fairhollow Beach Club (a private beach association on the Atlantic Coast); Photographs extremely well in black-and-white.

Our country is ready for Abercromocracy under law. We have experimented too long with popular government. Democratic government does not work. Rather, only Abercromocracy can rescue America from its woes: Government by impossibly good-looking, shirtless, post-pubescent Abercrombie & Fitch models like me.

America deserves exceptionally good-looking people in the highest offices. For too long, America has allowed extremely ugly, old and out-of-shape people to run its affairs. This is unfair to the American people. The American people want sex-drenched youthful exuberance in their leaders. They want their rulers to rule by merit: Merit in rippling teenage abs, merit in luscious lips, merit in inaccessible yet alluringly vacant looks, merit in dreamy yet intent eyes, merit in slanted nipples, merit in chest definition, merit in gorgeous smiles, merit in sand-covered tanned skin, merit in sparkling toes, merit in volleyball ability and merit in sun-tossed blondishness.

It's time to end ugliness in government. It's time to let beautiful people run the show.

Let's face it. America loves looking at us. We are the most stunningly beautiful people in the country. Whether male or female, we excite lust in everyone: Gay, straight and everything in between. Our carefree youthfulness transcends class barriers and unites everyone. Everyone wants to be like us. Everyone wants to frolic shirtless with us in the sand and wear our flip-flops. Everyone wants to dance naked with us near a beach bonfire late into the night. And everyone wants to wake up half-naked next to us as the summer dawn breaks over the beach horizon. In short, we turn every American on: Just look at all the clothes they buy from us.

We believe that our ability to excite lust makes us uniquely qualified to handle American government. After all, there is little difference between wise political rule and lust. A great politician arouses passions in the people, just as our impossibly good looks arouse insistent cravings in our followers. Leadership requires passion. We can generate that. And we are sure that most Americans would rather hear about job creation from a beautiful 19-year-old beach god than some stunted 67-year-old with bad hair.

Good-looking people command obedience. People like to look at us. They are more willing to look at us than some overweight career politician who eats donuts and never surfs. When people look at us, they get lost in our fantastically blue eyes. They drift away thinking about our beautiful skin and sun-tossled blond locks. They do anything we say. That is what leadership is all about. After all, we have good ideas. We are the best people. We are Abercromocrats.

Not everyone can be an Abercromocrat. Only current Abercrombie & Fitch models qualify. America does not want wrinkled people making top political decisions. America does not want facial hair and beer guts deciding what happens to our economy. And America does not want old people telling it what to do. Rather, America wants aloof, youthful, seductive and carefree teenagers dictating policy. Americans listen to us. They want to be like us. We are beauty incarnate. And beauty is power.

It is only natural that we should hold political power in this country. Our stunning beauty entitles us to rule everyone who is less good-looking than we are. We do not have pockmarks or pimples. We do not have back hair or bad breath. We do not have canker sores or discolored skin. We are not bald. We are not lame. We are strong, slender, sun-bronzed and mind-numbingly sexy. We dominate the lacrosse field and the volleyball square. We have merit. Not everyone can be an Abercrombie & Fitch model. Not everyone can stare at a camera as intently as we can with our piercing Anglo-Saxon eyes. And not everyone has nipples like us. Put simply, we are perfect. It is only fitting that the perfect rule the imperfect.

Our opponents say that beauty is not the only thing in the world. They say that our impossible beauty does not qualify us to handle the complicated intellectual issues that arise in American government. They say that we are too young to understand how to resolve foreign crises, manage the Federal Reserve system and save the economy from destruction. Worse, our opponents claim that we are arrogant, overprivileged and superficial rich kids who know nothing about real life.

Our opponents can moan all they want. They are ugly and overweight. No matter what they say, they shop at our stores. They secretly admire our pictures and wish they could watch us dance naked on the beach. We are more powerful than they will ever be. And to their criticisms we say this: Beauty makes perfection. We are perfect. Any course we adopt for America will be perfect, too. We are certain that America will rally behind us. When Americans drool over their political leaders, there is nothing we cannot accomplish as a Nation.

In the Abercromocratic State, image is everything. Whenever we appear in public, we must be filmed in grainy black-and-white in a carefree atmosphere. We will give press conferences from the beach. Male Abercromocrats must always remain shirtless. Female Abercromocrats must always wear short shorts and tight-fitting tops. For important policy statements, male Abercromocrats must lie down, rest their heads on their hands and wear only tight underpants. Justices of the Abercromocratic Supreme Court must wear sexy bandanas, tank tops and flip-flops. In our perfect Abercromocracy, we will solve every problem with youthful beauty alone. We need nothing else.

America is tired of listening to ugly old people talk about complicated political issues. America wants change. America wants a youthful face. For that reason, we must embrace Abercromocracy. This is the only natural thing to do. We have merit. We have abs. We are not old and tired. We play beachball all day and party deep into every night. We are unafraid to kayak naked or climb mountains in our underwear. Our pictures hypnotize everyone who beholds them. We deserve to rule because we have already won America's respect. We do not need to fuss around in elections or convince people that we know how to solve problems. Our ability is self-evident: We are shockingly beautiful half-naked men and women whose youthful lustiness oozes from every pore in our bodies. What more do we need to rule the greatest country on earth?

Democracy is overrated. It is a deviant government because it permits unnaturally ugly people to participate in important State policy. It has failed. Government by short, fat, hairy people has led this country to the brink of economic collapse. It is time to restore natural order to government. To do that, we must abandon Democracy and adopt Abercromocracy. When the most beautiful members of the species rule, we please nature. And when we please nature, our State can do no wrong. Just as the strongest and lustiest lions rule the pride, so too must the strongest and lustiest Abercrombie & Fitch models rule the United States. Nature chose us not only to excite lust in everyone who buys flip-flops and prewashed high-collar polo shirts with the emblem "92" on the sleeve. Nature also chose us to rule everyone too ugly to rule themselves. That is why we must adopt Abercromocracy: It is the only natural thing to do.

We can no longer afford to delude ourselves that everyone is equal in the United States. Just look at us. Our staggering beauty proves that we are not equal. We are the best. In that light, it makes sense to let us rule. Just as a coach chooses only the best players to make the team, so too must America allow the best people to rule the rest.

We are the best people. We have the best faces and the best teeth. We have the best skin and the best tongues. Our bodies are immaculate. They inspire envy and awe in all who see them. What more do we need to convince America that we must rule?

Join us in our quest to end the deviant social experiment called "American Democracy." If you are tired of unqualified, fat, ugly, hairy people dictating how you live, you must yield all political power to the Abercromocrats. We know how to rule. Nature chose us for a reason. It is pointless to resist nature. Plus we look oh-so-good in flip-flops.

Do the natural thing. Establish Abercromocracy before this country slips into oblivion.