Time may change me, but I can’t change time
Ch- ch- ch- (etc.) from Seize You on the Dark Side of the Moo
Time may change me, but I can't change time
It wasn't that complicated. Snip snip here and a tuck tuck there. Like the Merry Olde Land of Oz1.
Which is true as far as it goes.
But a face lift is never as simple as it seems. Fix this much, but not that much. Don't want friends to really notice, hence the month-long vacay. Get trimmed up a bit but nothing to suggest major work. Looking a little more rested is the ticket.
Some go the Botox route. Botulism. No thanks.
Or a boob job for that matter, though the before and after are a bit easier to finesse, at least in public.
Or tinting of hair, when you consider it. Highlights done well are not instantly noticeable, or, if a bold statement is in order, bright blue or green or orange will cover the grey without raising alarms. At your age some friends will think you're nuts, and they'll talk about it when you're elsewhere, but it won't be about the grey. Oh no.
And no less true of a matriarchal hotel than of a human individual. Take the Hotel California. If you booked a room there and then discovered the mirrors on the ceilings had been removed, and pink champagne no longer iced, would you want to stay there? Not likely. You'd check out pronto and be utterly floored to discover that you could in fact check out any time you liked, and leave. Changes of management are bound to happen, but if the establishment wants to reclaim dedicated clientele there needs to be a certain level of familiarity. Predictability is golden.
You know that famous group of writers who peopled the Algonquin in New York City? Well, I don't mean “do you know them” I mean “do you recall2.” (Why not rewrite the sentence? -Ed.) For ten years the Algonquin Writer's Circle held forth, being famous for being famous, ur-Kardashians (only with actual talent), lunching and wise cracking their way through the gilded era. If the joint had been remodeled extensively during that famously famous decade do you think the Circle would have remained unbroken?
No chance Charlie. They'd have scattered like billiard balls in an Opening Break Shot.
In fact between the Great Depression, which we can be pretty sure depressed a lot of people including the quipsters at the Algonquin, and raging success, which infected any number of Algonquinites just in time to save some of them from the depressive depths of the Great Depression, the diners skated away. Benchley to Hollywood (no less), Broun to sports reporting, Parker to this that and the other, Ross to fashioning The New Yorker® into the amazing collector of the very best of everything we know and love.
Truth: If your life hasn't been improved by The New Yorker®, your life hasn't been improved.
But we weren't talking about literary figures, were we? Nor the Algonquins. (Scratch) Nor the Hotel California. (Scratch)
(Scratch)
(Scratch)
(Scratch)
We were talking about change, pertaining to which Heraclitus really had the last word.
"Κανένας άνθρωπος ποτέ δεν μπαίνει στο ίδιο ποτάμι δύο φορές, γιατί δεν είναι ο ίδιος ποταμός και δεν είναι ο ίδιος άνθρωπος."
Isn't that the truth?
*****
Note per footnotes: Substack renumbers when I post, but footnotes sometimes refer to previous super important stuff in the print version, so originals are in [#]. Find previous stories in my Substack pile if you’re of a mind.
1 [110] Also referenced on page 18 [of the print version], for those of you keeping score at home.
2 [111] Dead long before you were born, most likely.
Copyright© 2019, Cecil Bothwell, All rights reserved.