Jetting, A Tale of the Upper West Side, Part II

I spent the intervening week trying to learn what jetting was. I only owned a Macintosh SE back then, and so I had to go to the Columbia campus to access the Internet on a school computer. Expecting my Yahoo searches to drag up a lot of sleaze, because prostitution, or at least the trappings of prostitution, seemed to be involved, I was surprised to see smiling, well-groomed, and apparently law-abiding faces on photos among the “jetting” search results. As I came to understand it, “jetting” was an ironic takeoff on “jet set,” a term from the seventies that had denoted the young nouveau riche, also known as “go-getters,” who were often pictured in magazines getting into their private jets or reclining on the decks of their yachts, with gorgeous smiles on their faces. The fact that the members of the jet set were usually shown cavorting in unmarried pairs introduced a sexual element to their joie de lucre, suggesting a unification of romance and materialism. The nineties term “jetting” was a comment on this mixing of love and money, presumably a mockery of it. It followed the American pattern of satire in that it advocated indulgence in something – the commodification of companionship, in this case – as a means of ridiculing it. (Think “Stupid Pet Tricks” on the David Letterman show.)

As I dug deeper, I discovered more about the New York jetting scene that, of course, had surrounded me all along without my being aware of it. The satirical meaning of jetting, I gathered, had over time given way to a social one: It was now used to formalize the dating process, to give it a little structure. Dating in New York had always been a high-stakes game, with success or failure, pleasure or pain, influenced by dozens of variables related to differences in personality and seriousness on the part of its players. Jealous of his (or her) time, the New Yorker worked as quickly as possible to gauge his compatibility with his opposite, determine the type of relationship that was most feasible, and decide if it was worth pursuing. It had always been very businesslike, in other words, and sentiment, as our New Yorker would say, only fucked things up. Live adult chat, speed dating, and, eventually, online dating were then becoming fashionable, each tending to heighten the sense that the individual lonely-heart was but one item on an ever-refreshing menu, like a roasted chicken going around on a rotisserie.

Jetting imposed order on this free-for-all. It established the principle of “pay-to-play,” disqualifying the unserious; and it added a layer of emotional protection, taking love out of the equation, leaving things “just business.” Moreover, it helped daters to rediscover their own value. By saying, “If you want to go out with me, you will have to put up some money,” the jetter refused to be cheapened. This last advantage struck me as especially poignant, for whereas prostitution commonly implied degradation, the simulated prostitution of jetting was actually designed to restore dignity.

Having grasped the generalities via my Internet research, I still needed to know how jetting worked in practice. I queried a few of my New York friends, and they informed me that the one hundred dollar price for a date was de rigueur. However, I would probably not have to forfeit the money permanently. Unless I proved to be an utter lout, my date, Lucy, could be expected to propose that she, in turn, engage my services on a subsequent occasion for the same one hundred dollars, effectively returning her original fee. This custom, I noted, relieved jetting of the opprobrium of sexism, because men and women ended up employing each other. It also guaranteed a second date, giving the parties more time to become acquainted or at least to feel less like the flower, quickly abandoned by the flitting butterfly.

On Friday, I withdrew a one hundred dollar bill from the old Republic National Bank on 96th Street. On Saturday, before noon, I headed to Riverside Park.

To be continued

China Journal: A Barren Source of Amusement

This diary entry is from my second excursion to Asia, in 1998-1999, for the purpose of conducting research for my dissertation. Unlike my first visit, this time, the internet was available, and I sometimes used it to combat loneliness, with mixed results.

Sunday, August 29, 1999 – Beijing

The computer has been a barren source of amusement lately. I’d been frequenting the chat rooms and had actually managed to have a friendly chat once in a while. Very recently, though, the chat rooms were transformed by avatars, little pictures designed to represent each chatter in a glitzy environment; and now all anyone ever talks about are the stupid I.D. pictures. I began to fear that nobody would notice me at all without an avatar; so I dutifully downloaded the new software. I find the chat room’s revised look to be as conformist as it is distracting, the women having all chosen similar “naughty” representations of themselves, and the men, likewise, having selected boilerplate, shirtless hunks.

I spent the entire morning in an unsuccessful attempt to download a photo of Richard Nixon (the Norman Rockwell painting from the Portrait Gallery) to use as my avatar, before I decided that I’d passed an invisible line separating passing the time and wasting time. I went out on my bike all day.

1968 - Pres. Nixon - by Norman Rockwell by x-ray delta one, via Flickr