I wrote the following as the latter half of a post about my first day on the job at New York magazine. The next day I was told by my superior said she had received complaints from editors that I was giving away our story topics on my blog. So I had to take the post down. Anyway here's the part I was allowed to keep up. It's a moot topic because I never did get to do what I fantasize about below, but hey, maybe one day I will.
On Thursday, assuming I get press access, the real show starts. I'll be the only person from New York mag at the 2009 NBA Draft, and I plan not to let this rare opportunity juke me out. I'm reading Hunter S. Thompson's famous piece on the crazed depravity of the Kentucky Derby for inspiration.
Both spectacles have a certain tantalizing aspect to them. As Thompson observed in The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved, the crowd is replete with "thousands of raving, stumbling drunks, getting angrier and angrier as they lose more and more money." No matter how drunk you get you're still going home with empty pockets. And what's the best that can happen for a fan at the NBA Draft? Your team picks a player who might pan out in the NBA, and now you have to wait four months for the season to start. Or you might stand around bitching and moaning because your team picked the wrong guy.
I expect the Draft to be somewhat more sober than Thompson's Kentucky Derby. Even boring, maybe. But somehow or other, the same zest that carries basketball fan(atic)s from across the country to a ceremony which uses no ball or hoop -- there's something in there.
Monday, June 29, 2009
"I don't know their life story, I don't know their personal shit, but I know how they treat me. They treat me good. Now that's some shit to write about."
Steve gesticulates at nobody. Every now and then he lets out a fleeting, sing-song yelp or a melodic whistle -- his form of participation in the homeless people's singalong which brings life to Washington Square Park every night.
"I've known Steve for a while. He's a nut. You know there's the village drunk, the town fool -- Steve's the nut," says Tariq. Tariq has been around for many years. His gray, wizened dreadlocks and upbeat spirit attest to that. "Everyone says there's something wrong with him, and there is. But I've noticed there's one thing he always does. He always wants to share with people. You know, he comes up to people with a drink, he offers you the straw -- people can't accept that shit! People don't understand him 'cause they don't know him. And I get it! People have their fears. But he's completely harmless. I've never once heard of him yelling or cursing, getting in fights, nothin'."
"He's so well put-together," I say, marveling at his tidy goatee and matching, fitting outfit.
"Oh you like his uniform?" Tariq says. "He wears that thing every day. But it's the strangest thing -- I've never smelled his body odor. Hey Steve! Come over here, I want you to meet my new friends!"
Steve looks over, his feathered hat whipping around with his attentive glare. He steps a few feet towards us and abruptly launches something at me as if it had just bitten him. "Yuhwahmuhshuht?" he earnestly offers as I bend down to pick it up.
"No thank you," I awkwardly stammer, taken aback despite Tariq's unforgettable warning. I hand the t-shirt back to him and he throws it right back in my face.
"Thanks, but it's your shirt!" I insist.
This time he accepts, clutching the rag to his chest, where he already holds an armful of folders overflowing with haphazard messes of paper. He jabbers incomprehensibly for a bit with an explanatory look in his eyes. Words mix seamlessly with flatulent bursts of air shoved through his pursed lips. I back away, cautious of his raining spittle. But there is none. Steve walks away, urgently gesticulating.
Steve gesticulates at nobody. Every now and then he lets out a fleeting, sing-song yelp or a melodic whistle -- his form of participation in the homeless people's singalong which brings life to Washington Square Park every night.
"I've known Steve for a while. He's a nut. You know there's the village drunk, the town fool -- Steve's the nut," says Tariq. Tariq has been around for many years. His gray, wizened dreadlocks and upbeat spirit attest to that. "Everyone says there's something wrong with him, and there is. But I've noticed there's one thing he always does. He always wants to share with people. You know, he comes up to people with a drink, he offers you the straw -- people can't accept that shit! People don't understand him 'cause they don't know him. And I get it! People have their fears. But he's completely harmless. I've never once heard of him yelling or cursing, getting in fights, nothin'."
"He's so well put-together," I say, marveling at his tidy goatee and matching, fitting outfit.
"Oh you like his uniform?" Tariq says. "He wears that thing every day. But it's the strangest thing -- I've never smelled his body odor. Hey Steve! Come over here, I want you to meet my new friends!"
Steve looks over, his feathered hat whipping around with his attentive glare. He steps a few feet towards us and abruptly launches something at me as if it had just bitten him. "Yuhwahmuhshuht?" he earnestly offers as I bend down to pick it up.
"No thank you," I awkwardly stammer, taken aback despite Tariq's unforgettable warning. I hand the t-shirt back to him and he throws it right back in my face.
"Thanks, but it's your shirt!" I insist.
This time he accepts, clutching the rag to his chest, where he already holds an armful of folders overflowing with haphazard messes of paper. He jabbers incomprehensibly for a bit with an explanatory look in his eyes. Words mix seamlessly with flatulent bursts of air shoved through his pursed lips. I back away, cautious of his raining spittle. But there is none. Steve walks away, urgently gesticulating.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)