Monday, November 28, 2005


Doing tai chi with David Carradine ...


Press accreditation? I have to actually work for a media organization to attend the UNFCCC talks? Or for that matter, be employed, period? It's times like these that I regret losing my press pass to a metro thief, but not even that could've got me in because the evaluation deadline was November 2nd and I didn't hear about this until the BBC mentioned it yesterday.

When I was an intern at the Spectator, I used to get PR notices all the time. Garbage days and funeral arrangements, I thought they came without asking. Now that I'm a rusty bum and too unmotivated to take any sort of initiative, I get updates sparingly and, even then, react without concern. "Wake up early? I think I'll pass." (If it doesn't fit, you must acquit.) Conventions: attendance isn't so much boring as covering it is. Potent Quotables isn't a Jeopardy category for nought: they're rare and hard to come by. Besides, deciphering jargon is fun to do only after the entire event is sufficiently recorded, and by that time, you're too exhausted to be witty anyway, churning out as much wry observations as breast milk from a man. I don't know what's worse: Thinking the world inane or thinking the world impressive. Neither one makes me want to be an active part of it.

I'd like to be Larry King. You know, wear suspenders to hold up my increasingly droopy scrotum, have a harem of ex-wives, and get paid to wear goggles as I feign affection for Hulk Hogan's doorag. Talk for a living. Talk and stare. Talk, stare, and act interested in the latest Hollywood pre-teen orgy. (Lowe & Polanski: The Wonder Years!) I think it would be fun to host a cable show. Maybe innocently install a camera underneath my desk to broadcast what me legs are doing to shamelessly rack up ratings. (Oh, Katie Couric, you widowed whore. Affectionately.) Who wouldn't tune in for hourly updates on the state of my winter-chapped-legs and their generally pasty appearance? This is Nielsens gold, I tell ya! Gold!

I'd still like to be a journalist though. But one of those lazy ones, like Karl Marx, who probably only corresponded with head office when he needed money to support his side hobby, inspiring proletariat uprisings. Or Ernest Hemingway: type a few columns a day, sit by the sea, grow a beard and stare at a shotgun. Or be like one of those stubborn, "I'll editorialize if I want to!" guys: violate virgins, smoke the contents of a trunk, make threadbare fashion statements, weekend bingers on bangers, emergency sex with refugees, then report back to the boss on time to be given another extension.

I carry the torch of this legacy. I hold it high.

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