Editors of n+1 have boldly described their magazine, “like Partisan Review, except not dead.” They’ve favorably compared their publication to Lingua Franca, another late, great magazine (which managed to be both smarter and less self-righteous than n+1). The editors, among other people, think it, and they, are very cool. I’d been a subscriber for a few issues—and was between thinking they were very cool and very insufferable—and so when a friend texted me that I should come to n+1’s Issue 14 launch party that night in SoHo, I went.

The party started at 8:00, and I got on the downtown 2 around 10:30. My friend Mark said that he was tending bar from 12 to 2 am, so I figured I could at least get free drinks. I didn’t know exactly where the address was, being wholly unfamiliar with that part of town, but I headed east from the Canal Street 1 stop. After a few blocks, I knew I was there. There were one-hundred-and-fifty raucous, animated, smoking, twenty-blank-year-olds shuffling around outside a packed, four hundred square foot gallery space which vomited forth vapid people and insipid dance beats. Three cabs were offloading and picking up what I took to be destitute, parentally-funded writers. There would continue to be a lot of cab traffic. People wore n+1 tote bags, backless dresses, short shorts. The women were dressed to party, showing off their long legs. The boys wore button down shirts that covered their shrimpy arms.

Andy and Kathy were to meet me there, but they had been in a park, drinking whiskey concealed in a plastic bag, so they were late. Observing the noisy scene alone, I felt pretty angry and crazed at the inanity, so I walked on down the block and up an avenue, looking for a deli. In Harlem I’d gotten used to greasy heroes and V8 juice and for the summer had given up my habitual visits to the farmer’s market; now that I was downtown in Bougeville, there were only vegetables, and all I wanted were eggs and bacon on a roll. I saw too many wood-paneled bars, yoga studios, art galleries, and fancy restaurants, and so I felt crazed again. On one corner there were some more drunk twenty-blank-year-olds—older than the people at the n+1 party, but still not that old—loudly stumbling towards me. I did not get out of their way. I turned around, and decided to eat later.

Andy texted me that he was sorry—they would be there in five minutes. This was unsurprising; at home I’d checked Google Maps, and wherever they were was only a five minute cab ride away. I stood outside the party and scowled at people.

Sooner than I expected, he and Kathy tumbled out of a cab. I was happy to see them. Kathy pulled me aside and said that Andy was drunk, and that she didn’t know how she would deal with these people, except by faking interest.

Kathy gave me a cigarette, and we three stood across the street from the party. On our side, there were about ten people. On the other side, there were 100 outside, and however many inside. Suddenly, there were more people standing in our circle: Celia, an n+1 intern, plus a tall girl, a skinny guy, and a meatier guy. All of us went to Columbia. Celia shook my hand in the V-shaped way some girls like, the skinny guy gave me a limp handshake (which maybe was ironic; I got the feeling he would rather have consummated that detestable clasp-hands-and-thump), and the meatier guy gave me a meatier handshake. We talked about some stuff which I now forget, but which seemed very immediate at the time. Kathy pulled me aside and said that she was having trouble faking interest. There was an issue of n+1 lying on the sidewalk.

Celia is taking this year off to write some things for n+1. Andy told her to write for Bwog in her spare time. She said she could be our “correspondent from the real world.” I did not ask her if the “real world” was where your parents pay for your Brooklyn apartment and your amusements. She tells us that she went to prep school in North Carolina. She hates North Carolina.

I asked her what n+1 interns do. She said nothing really, but they get fucked up. Andy said, well, you guys tweet. She said yes. Andy said, Conor was excited whenever you retweeted him. I was embarrassed. Celia said that the latest issue had a piece about Twitter. I said I know.

Celia is an English major, and so am I, so we talked about English professors. I have to take something with Molly Murray. Celia said that she would rather be at a cozy, wood-paneled bar. I said, there are some right around the corner.

Celia offered to get us beers, because she was an intern, and could us get free beers. Two minutes later, she returned with five warm bottles of Brooklyn Pilsner. Kathy gave me another cigarette. I mentioned that there were a lot of young people here, though the editors are in their forties. Celia said that they like to fuck younger people. I wondered if that is what I would do if I were forty and divorced and had the option.

We mentioned that we know Mark, and Andy asked how he got to bartend. We figured he could get us free drinks. Celia explained that an n+1 staffer knew him from Twitter, and needed to ask somebody she knew would say yes.

Mark texted me to ask where I am, and I told him. He crossed the street. I asked him how much beers are. Two dollars each. I would not be getting free drinks. Mark asked me why I haven’t gone inside. Celia said because it was just an unadorned, hot gallery full of shuffling people. I said I wanted to see what was going on. He said it was ten dollars, even for subscribers. I decided not to go inside. I looked down, and the issue on the sidewalk was gone.

Celia had to go, and Mark had disappeared. Kathy, Andy, and I decided to go to 1020. I said, let’s take the subway. Andy said he’d pay for a cab. We took a cab, and Andy paid. I bought us car bombs at the bar. Earlier I’d done a few hours of data entry for a SIPA Ph.D. candidate, and we drank them up. We walked back to Harlem.

I woke up with a headache.

Names have been changed as a courtesy.