Yeah. Well so much for wishing my life were another Groundhog Day. Tuesday now feels as far away as Tiflis. (that’s Tiflis not syphilis.) Early this morning, like 3 am early, I’m skimming this article, The Dystopians, in the New Yorker. All about the oncoming Dark Ages, bridge and tunnel apocalypse, global collapse, city dwellers (ie me) living like squatters on worthless real estate. I lie there, tossing and turning, my eyes popped open as wide as a kid watching a shark swim up against an aquarium window. What the FUCK, I’m thinking. What am I doing to prepare for these dark days ahead? I’m blogging about bathing and Buddhists at Bergdorfs. I’m shopping for towels. Huh? You’re what? I’m shopping for Egyptian cotton towels at ABC. (Reduced from $55. to $15.)And how insane is this? I’m stuffing those towels into beat-up old D’agostino bags. I’m embarrassed to be seen toting an ABC bag. That’s right. I’m ashamed.
According to the Dystopians, what I should be doing is turning my paltry CD’s into gold ingots. More like pebbles, maybe. Or gravel. I should be out beating the streets, looking for a new job. A different job. Wake up, Brenda! Wake up and smell the coffee. Make a decision. Stock up on tuna not towels. I mean, what is UP with that? How are towels gonna help, unless there’s another great Flood? Do something. Dump the real estate. Buy a boat. Gather up your gold gravel and head for the hills. Do something constructive with your life. Like your friends. Build an entire city, from the ground-up, an architect’s ideal city, in China. Open a brand new high school in Greenwich Village. Crawl out of bed at 4 am to write your fifth novel before jumping on the subway for your full time job at the U.N. Stop sitting around down here like Chicken Little, waiting for the sky to fall.