If we really wanted to hear a neurotic Jew ramble (and ramble well) we could just turn on any Woody Allen movie from the 70's or 80's. But I'm having what you might call a crisis of faith. So here it is:
It's time to spin a magical algorithm. For the past few months I've spoken to, drank with , and eaten among the fastest generation of people to ever stroll the planet of Manhattan. And there's something to be said for it. Because now that Girls is over, who else can we blame for not solving the problems of our unemployed, single lives? I'm taking from some of my own experience which, of course, is never a good idea.
But I don't know when we stopped being able to communicate with each other. Then again maybe in a dream world we'd wake up and everything would just be re-ignited again. People would take one another out to dinner and drink and eat in the good company of others. These people exist and that's why they are a treasure. Like a glass of wine at the end of a long day. Something you can savor and remember in the present moment. In a dream world people wouldn't over-think things, and they'd be able to tell another person that they're crazy about them. But to tell someone that now is to come across…well, crazy.
I write this now because I may never get another chance to say it. The taxi could hit the gas and run the red tomorrow while I cross second avenue and it'll be auf wiedersehen to the neurotic jew who drank too much. But at this moment, in the city of New York, never before have I had friends who eat, drink, work, or fuck with such a frequent urgency. They are so afraid of doing nothing with their lives that they act on impulse as if to make sure that nothing is ever static. They are generation Buzzfeed, Twitter, Facebook, Instragram, and Tumblr all rolled into one. And my biggest fear (next to that speeding cab) is that English will die. Because tweeting is the sound a bird makes, tumblr makes me think of a rolling truck, and blogging is a pretentious version of saying online journalism for people who eat too much ramen. Don't even get me started on the word Hashtag.
This affects the dating scene. Thanks to a great article in The Times, a writer blatantly called out the newly single New York graduates who didn't know how to define what a date was. And to answer your question - NO - hanging out is NOT A DATE. Bros hangout. Girlfriends meet up. Black and white without a single or fifty shade of grey in the middle. There's nothing necessarily wrong with texting, as long as you're not texting a girl or guy to go to dinner or to "meet up." You call them. On the phone. Using your keypad.
If chivalry died and killed the courtship clause, then we'll adapt somehow. We are after all, the generation who invented OKcupid. And the only reason I'm bringing that bloody website up is because online dating is so relevant in our culture. Not that its defied the odds just yet but in a few years, it's ability to single in on the romantically uninvolved may surprise you. Unlike J-date. J-date is expensive as shit!
These are the current relationships – the good, the bad, the terrible in between for people who don't know what to call the person they're waking up next to every morning. And if one person wants to talk about the fact that although the sex (usually great) is a bonus, they'd like something a bit more. Which leads to the disastrous cliché of labeling and then it's a blah blah blur of fights breaking out into tears. And you end up in your room with a bowl of pasta and a bottle of wine marinating in your bed while trying to find your Adele/John Mayer Spotify playlist. Welcome to the jungle. Minus the fun and games.
Why all this now? Because one night I was sitting at my computer listening to "All My Friends" the remarkable seven and a half minute song from the band LCD Soundsystem. It's a song about your years passing, about how you'll blink one day and be 30. Or 40. About how you'll never get certain moments in your life ever again. And at the end when you're grown you're left wondering why you never spent more time with the people who made you feel complete.
So, to the men and women living in their 20's in New York City. Find the joy in your life. Most of you deserve the world, and you should expect nothing less than that from the next girl/guy who takes you out for 2 for 1 spicy Buffalo wings at the local dive bar for happy hour. Who knows? They may just be your person. I'm sure there are a lot of single women complaining about how they'll never find Mr. Perfect. But did you know that there are a ton of men out there doing the same thing? I mean, are we just supposed to Santa Clause our ass down your fireplace and onto your ultra comfy tempur-pedic mattress? If that happens, I still won't tell you where to find me. Men are not enemy (I mean some of us really suck) but sometimes we blend into each other's douchebaggery when we all wear button ups on Saturday Night. No - it's not our desire to look like a walking J-Crew catalogue, so what would you have us wear?
Until then, keep eating, keep drinking, keep brunching, keep living. Because when you're old and grey and playing Mahjong with your soul sistas, you'll look back at the reward of being single (or not single) in you're 20's. And you'll remind yourself how they were the best years of your life. With or without Mr. Big. With or Without your Mila Kunis fantasy woman. Do whatever you can to be happy, because if the world ends tomorrow, at least you'll have this ridiculous essay.
Wishing you the best.
P.S. Buzzfeed. You still rock.
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