December 20, 2001, 2:26 p.m.
Saturday night I found myself in a small room with a bevy of
beautiful young people drinking beer out of the can with pink paper
umbrellas. The lovely girls wore their hair shorter than the lovely
boys, who were themselves meticulous in pinning shorn sweater
sleeves to their too-small polo shirts. Nodding their heads to the noise
of Casiotone For the Painfully Alone, they discerned something from the
feedback and monotonous drum beat --art, perhaps-- which I did
not, and I despaired for something I could dance to. Later, back in the
car, I was grateful for the Zero Boys cassette in the dashboard stereo.
We sang "Living in the '80s," tallied Bush's offenses against Reagan's,
and wondered how these last four months would be remembered.