ANYONE WHO HASN’T been hiding in a cave with Osama since September is probably suffering from a surfeit of “How the World Has Changed” journalism. Much of it has been pabulum, but I confess that I find one genre fascinating: the articles about how everyday Americans are coping with calamity through (relatively benign) hedonism. You’ve seen at least a few of these articles, I’m sure. Just last Wednesday there was another New York Times article on the rise in bar-hopping. More people are going to bars, and when they do, they are staying later, drinking more–and drinking sterner stuff. A consultant to the Regency hotel says that “since Oct. 1, sales have been hard core: cocktails, manhattans, bottles of wine, vodka on the rocks and martinis–no flavored martinis, just the real stuff.” Some New York City bars report that liquor sales in November were up as much as 25 percent over sales in November 2000. Other articles claim that jittery Americans are also taking refuge in tobacco. Several of these refer to a survey of 2,000 adults by the American Cancer Society and GlaxoSmithKline, in which a third of smokers say they have bought more cigarettes than usual since September 11, and 5 percent of former smokers claim to have started smoking again (which actually doesn’t sound like that high a figure for any 3-month period). Apparently all this smoking and drinking is putting us in the mood for other pleasures. Still more articles tell us that the prospect of impending terrorist destruction is prompting Americans to become more amorous. The neologisms for this phenomenon are multiplying: “apocalypse sex,” “disaster trysts,” and “Armageddon sex” seem to be the favorites. Time magazine tells us that “with tragedy as a common bond, ‘What to Talk About’ has not been a problem” for singles in a post-September 11 world. One New York man tells Time that he had a “disaster tryst” with a woman he met on the subway: “Pretty much all we talked about was the World Trade Center and how glad we were to be alive.” Another man says this about his apocalypse sex experience: “People died . . . I have guilt about it. But I’d rather feel guilty and miserable with somebody else than all alone.” A woman says, “It answers that deep need, emotional and physical, to be as close as you possibly can to somebody.” Because of all this newfound lovin’, other articles are predicting a baby boomlet next summer. Dating services are seeing a big jump in new clients. Jewelry stores report a jump in diamond sales, even though fall is not traditionally a busy time of year for engagement ring purchases. There are even anecdotal reports of a drop in divorces. According to the Chicago Tribune, one Chicago family-law firm that handles more than 1,000 divorces a year has seen fewer filings, some postponements of pending divorces, and much less bickering over details in the ones still going forward. But far and away the greatest number of stories in this genre have focused on food–specifically, the flight of Americans to “comfort food” and junk food. In late October, New York Times food critic William Grimes began his column with this strange admission: “It wasn’t too many days after Sept. 11 that a hot dog began to dominate my thoughts. It was a classic dog, spread with mustard and piled high with relish. . . . This archetypal American hot dog developed into a real craving. I had to have one . . . [it] began camping out on my imagination’s doorstep, demanding to be let in. It’s part of me. And under pressure, its emotional claims could not be denied.” Mr. Grimes is not alone in succumbing to the “emotional claims” of sweets and “comfort food.” In late November, the Washington Post reported that sales of Oreos were up 18 percent over last year; frozen pizza, 8 percent; Kraft macaroni and cheese, 7 percent; and pastries, doughnuts, and salty snacks like potato chips and tortilla chips, 4 percent. In another Post story, hotel restaurants report that travelers are eschewing gourmet offerings in favor of, yes, “comfort foods”–meatloaf and mashed potatoes, buffalo wings and cheese fries. According to a November 29 Newsday story, New York chocolatiers also reported a boost in sales. On television over Thanksgiving, I saw perhaps the weirdest story yet of this type: Women are buying more lipstick. Make-up companies are reporting sales increases since September 11 of 10 to 12 percent over the same period last year. (Part of this may be recession-related; retailers noticed a similar up-tick in lipstick sales in 1990 during the last recession.) And women aren’t just buying more lipstick; they’re turning away from bland earth tones, opting for “richer shades, reds, wines, and plums.” One woman tells NBC News that lipstick is “almost like an instant pick me up, almost like Prozac. You put on a new lipstick and you feel like a new person.” Predictably, most of these articles aren’t just reporting the details of these trends; they’re also trying to explain What It All Means. It’s tempting to make some bold pronouncement on the meaning of almost anything these days, but it’s dangerous to read too much into these anecdotes. I’m not sure there is some deep existential import that we can divine in Americans’ newfound hankering for mashed potatoes and Marlboros. We should also note that not all the recent changes in American behavior are on the Epicurean side. As has been well documented, Americans are also turning to religion, re-connecting with their families and friends, and becoming more involved in their communities. Some of the trends I mentioned earlier may even have a positive aspect: When even opening the mail becomes a hazardous experience, maybe an extra glass of wine does some good. The important thing to remember in all this is a sense of moderation. One young Londoner, rushing to inebriate himself in a pub, tells the London Times that “if we learn anything from what happened it should be that you must live for the moment because tomorrow you could be toast.” But the vast majority of those indulging themselves in “I-might-be-toast-tomorrow” behavior will, in fact, not be toast tomorrow, and will have to live with the consequences. The rub, it seems, is in how to define “living for the moment.” There’s a fine line between indulging in a few relatively harmless vices to maintain one’s sanity and zest for life, and a wholesale abdication of seriousness. Is that extra drink, cigarette, or cupcake merely an escape–a means of avoidance? Or, is it a healthy, momentary restorative for souls otherwise busy steeling themselves to meet the new demands of this hour in our history? Only time will tell, I suppose. While we wait, I think I’ll have a martini. Lee Bockhorn is associate editor at The Weekly Standard.
