E-mails I Sent the Day of the ‘Miracle on the Hudson’


The good thing about the new Depression is that I’ve been in one for the past five years, so I’m used to it. Nice to have company.



Boom times are the worst in New York. I’d still like to slug this T-shirted guy at the Cub Room in Soho back in 1999 who told me all about his Internet start-up with 200 employees.



So nice being at Mr. Chow the other night and seeing it only half-full—no rapper or Internet guys, no Julian Schnabel and “Olatz” at that table by the bar, not even a Kelly Osbourne–caliber celeb. Just a few investment bankers, a table of five fat dudes gorging in silence, and my group. Best time I ever had there.



If a plane landing on water isn’t a good excuse to have fun, I don’t know what is.



I remember being on Nantucket in ’79 and this extra man dude Fred Von Miers knocking on the door and announcing, “It is I!”



I could really use my 30s back.



 Only one word for Captain Chesley B. Sullenberger III: Stud.



The real problem with Tropic Thunder is it’s too “clever” by half. Why not just do a spoof of a Vietnam movie, period? And I resent all the hype about how Robert Downey Jr. being in blackface was a big controversy and envelope-pushing and only he could get away with it ’cause he’s one of our finest living actors. Yawn.


I don’t trust 95 percent of my Facebook friends. Bunch of cocksuckers.



Being born in the mid-to-late 1930s woulda been pretty sweet. The country’s prosperous by the time you’re in high school. Too young for Korea, too old for Vietnam.


E-mails I Sent the Day of the ‘Miracle on the Hudson’