Leave him be and let snoring be his tune. We can hope he falls into a coma. On this planet, he’s a melanoma.
You take him too seriously, I’m afraid. When all he does is get drunk and get laid.
I don’t care that he drinks himself blotto While pretending to pray in a grotto. It’s when he claims that his frivolities Are the result of innate qualities That I want to drag him from this gilded cage And make him live on our pay, minimum wage.
“The `80s were the last identifiable period. If you see a picture from that era, you know it instantly. The art, the clothes, the hair; they were unique. After that, everything started to look and feel the same.”
That’s what the author Jay McInerney said (or something close to it) when I saw him at a book reading here in La Jolla. He seemed wistful. And why he wouldn’t he be, having hurdled like a latter day F. Scott Fitzgerald into the New York literary scene with his 1984 bestseller, Bright Lights, Big City? As he spoke, I too waxed nostalgic for the time, the scene, and recalled a woman who once leaned against the bar of the Surf Club on the Upper East Side. It was 1988, and I thought it was her birthday.