Not Together Again

We all learned in school, then promptly forgot, that the opposite of entropy is negentropy. Falling into disorder or getting things more in order: That is the question.

Watching young children on playdates these days shows that they can easily maintain social distance while doing things in parallel. They are skilled at copying each other's moves.

Teenagers, with their hormones bursting out of control, will no doubt invent a new dance based on social distancing -- the Corona-V -- masked, weaving back and forth in exotic circles, seductively never quite coming together.

Older folks need routines too, we need our rituals. Mine include rising early, sipping coffee, wrapping myself in the shawl my mother made me, and writing these essays. As the sun comes up, the light lifts my mood and I find my tortured way to some sort of message that is more hopeful than it would have been had I published in the dark.

Yet the evidence that things are falling apart is inescapable. The President of the U.S. is self-medicating with a drug medical experts warn might be dangerous. What is *that* about? "I'm still here," he announced, which I suppose is to be considered an accomplishment.

One of the issues that worries me, actually, is the tendency of many to self-medicate under stress. People won't necessarily follow the President's example and take a dangerous prescribed drug, but there are plenty of alternatives  advertised boldly on the gated windows of every corner store.

"We sell the poisons you love and we are open!"

***

Out on the streets I never visit any longer, I used to get recognized at times. "It's Bill Clinton!" a woman said. "Hi Bernie!" a man said. What they had in common was they had been drinking. That, and that our paths crossed.

Once, in 2004, while crossing Mission Street with a girlfriend I'd not known for very long, a woman stopped us in the middle of an intersection to tell me about a major new development she was part of. She didn't want anything like a donation or for me to sign a petition; she just wanted me to know about it.

"Why does that keep happening to you?" my girlfriend asked. "It's not the first time."

"It's simple. I used to be almost famous," was my answer.

The "almost famous" schtick would have been brilliant had it been mine. But Cameron Crowe had already coined it four years earlier.

"Whatever," my GF answered. "I might as well as not even been there."

"Try hanging out with someone who actually is famous," I retorted. "That makes being invisible feel really, really good."

***

Back in the 70s, when I wrote for *Rolling Stone*, I had shoulder-length dark hair and wore plaid shirts and jeans. Just about everyone I knew wanted to visit our office at 625 Third Street. Something like 35 years after I'd last worked there, I returned as a technology blogger to interview the top local executive of a software company called Harmonix.

The company had achieved success by developing a video game called Rock Band.

The conference rooms in the place were now named after Hunter Thompson, et.al., and the company's social media manager told me they were intent on leveraging the *Rolling Stone* connection in their marketing campaigns.

Having been almost famous myself at the time in question, this strategy made sense to me. After all, romanticizing the past is fun plus a good way to make money, and a video game like that one appeals to anyone's yearning to be a star.

If only you could be a star!

Certainly life would be better. People would definitely want to have sex with you, and they'd probably also give you drugs for free. Best of all, rather than playing your guitar in front of a monitor you could do it in front of a crowd.

Did I mention that once upon a time, I was almost a star myself?

Another time, I was almost run over by a speeding car.

Both times, I got lucky. I escaped with my life.

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