the power of NOW vs. the power of GIN; some reflections on cynicism and idealism.

Every once in a while I wake up happy that the sun is shining on my face, the grass is growing beneath my feet and I’m overjoyed just to be alive. The other 364 days in the year I make a cup of dark and bitter coffee, light a cigarette, and just get on with it. Then I probably sit down and write an equally bitter and cynical email to someone—usually someone in New York—who gets it. Gets cynicism, that is. Contrary to what you may think, or how it may seem, I find this a very healthy and productive way to start a day. I figure if you spit life in the face first, no matter how much it throws it back at you as the day goes on, at least you’ll have the comfort of knowing you did it first. Its like saying “I told you so,” before the event. Quite the prophetic stroke of genius, I find.

***

You know when you go to those work things where they make you wear a name tag? And you know when you’re half way home and you realize you’re still wearing it? Today was one of those days. Seriously, when people are staring at you on the tube it really pays sometimes to stop and think twice as to why that is. There I am thinking they’re thinking I’m beautiful, intriguing, mesmerizing, while they’re thinking I’m so retarded I decided not only to name, but label, one of my breasts during some tedious conference call.

***

By around noon today things had already reached that point when I realized the only thing that could possibly turn them around was gin. No rocks. No dilutions. Just gin. So, as I strolled down Oxford Street (which in any bad day is nothing more than the perfect avenue to make it worse—die, tourists, die!), I began scrolling through my contacts thinking who might a) be available at that hour; b) be willing to drink gin or c) be coerced into watching me drink gin. Nope, nope, nope. Now I know why cellphone contact lists can be made up of individuals and groups, and now I know that I need to form me a new group: “Gin lovers, unemployed.” And just as I was beginning to give up on the idea and getting ready to do it on my lonesome, my phone rang. “Max Virgin” calling.

***

Now I’m not sure if Max really is a virgin, and as it turns out his name is not even actually Max, but he’s a personal trainer who works at a Virgin Active very close to where I was standing in that moment, and he’s a qualified masseur. Who cares what his name is. I don’t recall actually voicing a prayer in that moment, but as far as I was concerned, it was answered. Perfect timing, perfect location, perfect gin-slash-debauchery victim. “Hey!” I answered enthusiastically and cut to the chase, “where are you?” “Just left the gym was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee.” “Not coffee, gin, see you there in five minutes.” Things were looking up. I was envisioning a blissful afternoon with a personal trainer, a personal double gin, and call it coincidence if you like but we happened to be surrounded by hotels. Did I mention he’s a qualified masseur?

***

Turns out Max Virgin is also a qualified optimist, idealist, and buzzkill—a certified member of the Brady Bunch. He’s from that bizarre planet of individuals who believe that gin cannot better anything but merely worsen it, and so he sat me down somewhere in front of an orange juice and a fruit salad. After staring at the OJ rather miserably for quite some time, he in true personal trainer fashion cheered me on to having it, and I, did what we do, imagined it was gin and downed it. I think my imagination did quite a convincing job, for I then said, “I’m so glad you called me! I was just looking for someone to lunch with!” “Maybe I’m your guardian angel,” he responded. Erm, no honey, we’re sitting here having OJ and fruit salad, you’re my guardian killjoy. If you were massaging me and feeding me gin through a straw, maybe then you’d be my angel. Hell, you’d be my god.

***

What seemed like eternities later, when we had run out of fitness and sunshine talk…covered all the muscles and vitamins I could possibly stomach, I reverted to my grandmother’s old trick and asked him what book he was reading. It’s a good indicator this one. I find people usually have one of three answers. Either they’ll say something like Dan Brown, in which case I’ll proceed to give my views (read: slashing) of airport literature. Or they’ll name some obscure historical or classical piece to which I’ll attempt to respond in some intellectual fashion—“I knew a girl at school called Pandora once, never got to see her box though.” Or they’ll say they’re half way through Proust or Fleurs du mal, and I’ll say marry me. This third one hasn’t ever happened—its a pure figment of my imagination. But Mr. Virgin didn’t fit into any of these categories…instead, he said, “I’m reading a fantastic book called The Power of Now.” The Power of Now? Am I on candid camera? Could we be from more opposite planets? I mean I’m all for fitness and OJ (especially when its mixed with champagne), but seriously, did the gods just wake up this morning bored and send you to me for a chuckle?

***

A few moments later, when I asked him to tell me a little bit more about The Power of Now, I found myself standing in the middle of Hyde Park doing an “exercise.” I was instructed to close my eyes and listen to the silence. Apparently the idea is that if you tell your mind to look for silence in a noisy place, it will so actively try to seek it out that it will stop thinking about whatever else its thinking about. Here’s the thing though little Brady. I’m not sure that I want my mind to stop thinking. Its kind of what I hope to earn a living from one day. So why don’t you just stop thinking and propose that we check into the Dorchester, get tanked on Tanqueray and go play in the steam room? That’s what I call the power of now.

That’s how we cynics do idealism.