New York
I have settled into my Bagel routine as if I had never been away: up early, a 25-minute walk through the park, one hour of judo working with three opponents, walk back, have breakfast and collapse with the newspapers. In the evening it is karate with Richard Amos and a couple of other black belts, then dinner at home. Three times per week I go out and get hammered in case I get too healthy, more often than not with Michael Mailer in the Boom Boom room, André Balazs’s downtown extravaganza. The women are mostly young, tall and thin, and much better than the men, except when either sex is Russian. Then they’re both awful. I’m trying to find one of those old communist hammer and sickle pins, in order to draw their attention, as I once did in Gstaad, by wearing a CCCP judo jumper. It was my favourite system because it kept people like you locked inside, away from us, is what I hope to say when and if anyone asks.
Spring is in full bloom over here, cherry blossom and wisteria reaching a peak, so to speak, the latter cascading magnificently around Rockefeller Center, not that anyone takes notice. Everyone’s much too busy texting. I run across these morons daily when crossing the park. Not a single person, not even those dumb tourists, ever looks up. Trees, grass, nature, birds, all go unnoticed as the decibel level decreases in direct proportion to the people present. No one speaks, everyone’s plugged in, and even the homeless are texting. These are the idiots weaned on reality shows who also wear headphones like that poor radio officer on the Titanic. They are listening to crap music, texting moronic messages to fellow morons, and speaking on mobile telephones while reading emails.
Oh, yes, I almost forgot, there are a few attention-craving phonies who use their mobiles as a dumping ground for cornball clichés while they try to impress the rest of us peasants who happen to be within hearing distance. These are the worst, and they are mostly men. They shout out amounts and give orders to unknowns — most probably speaking to a dial tone. Mind you, I could be wrong. The utter banality of some women’s conversations should in time become a justifiable homicide offence.
Here you have a park of 843 magnificent acres, including 150 acres of water, 250 acres of lawn, and 130 acres of woodland, and what do people do when they find themselves inside this paradise? They text each other and never, but never look up. Not too long ago, before horrors like Steve Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg surfaced, people walked with their heads up, looking at the water and the sky and one another. Now they type, as if they never left the office. But please don’t think I’m complaining. I’m actually bragging, as I own no mobile telephone, nor do I practise the modern version of masturbation, texting, nor do I own an iPod or a Kindle. (Well, that’s not 100 per cent correct. When on board Bushido, I do use a mobile telephone, but only then.)
Speaking of Bushido, I am about to start a new career, not exactly as a jeune premier, but as a vieux premier. My friend Michael Mailer is producing a film, which will be directed by the terrific James Toback, starring Alec Baldwin. They’re already shooting it, and the greatest of all Greek thespians begins in ten days, on board my yacht. (I have a fight with Baldwin and we both fall overboard.) Graydon Carter has given us permission to shoot during the Vanity Fair bash at the Cannes Film Festival, which means a broken-down old actor like me might finally get lucky. (Nurse Jenny, eat your heart out. And you, too, Jessica Raine.) But back to those mentally atrophied types who confuse conversation with connection.
It has often been written that a big city can be a very lonely place. Well, I’ve got news for you. It just got lonelier for those who are unable to be alone unless they are constantly connected. What has certainly got worse — if it ever existed among Noo Yawkers — is the art of conversation. Among the young — fuggeraboutit. They can only grunt, if that. Laptops, iPods, mobiles and Facebook get in the way. Communication has been dumbed down to a degree that only severe stroke victims can comprehend. And when one limits or is totally denied the art of conversation, one has absolutely no chance to self-reflect. And because I’m about to become a famous movie star, my thoughts must from now on lie with Hollywood. Just imagine a modern version of Casablanca, with Rick texting his faithful Dooley Wilson: ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.’ Or Rick writing to Ilsa: ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’ It is as absurd as some of those ludicrous people I see daily texting in the park. Being online is being out of touch, and for the life of me I cannot understand why anyone would want to be on Facebook. Why tell people what you’re up to? It’s bad enough to be pursued by children and wives for acting as a normal man acts, without posting one’s actions for all to see.
Last but not least, connecting emotionally is what it’s all about — at least with friends or with women — and looking at smart phones will not cut it. Get unconnected and start living.
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