A Pro At Being An Amateur

I suspect I sit at entirely the wrong desk. It is so crowded with distractions that there's hardly room to see a small pad amongst them and get to work -- framed photos, mementos, trophy cups full of unsharpened pencils, a box of foreign currency, a tin in the form of Shea Stadium with a top that when removed plays 'Take Me Out to the Ballgame,' a Masai doll, a tined musical instrument from West Africa, a brass megaphone, paperweights, a small clock that doesn't work, a dish of keys to locks I can't remember. There's almost nothing on the desk that is useful -- such as a pencil sharpener to sharpen all those pencils. I have often wondered if I swept it all clear -- Saint Jerome in his cell -- would I do better -- churn out the odd masterpiece? [Link]

What can I add to what has already been written about George Plimpton? His biography has been recited in all of the obits already written about him. I haven't posted in a few days because I'm still letting the fact of his death sink in and what he meant to me, not only as a writer, but as a fellow traveller whose life crossed mine at the same time on this planet.In spite of what you may read in the comments at FARK, most people are not ignorant of his accomplishments.

My first memory of George Plimpton came as a result of his book Paper Lion, which chronicled his "rookie" campaign where he remembered the crowd cheering as he left the field after a series of screwups.

My confidence was extreme. I ambled slowly behind Whitlow, poised down over the ball, and I had sufficient presence to pause, resting a hand at the base of his spine, as if on a windowsill -- a nonchalant gesture I had admired in certain quarterbacks -- and I looked out over the length of his back to fix in my mind what I saw.

Everything fine about being a quarterback -- the embodiment of his power -- was encompassed in those dozen seconds or so: giving the instructions to ten attentive men, breaking out of the huddle, walking for the line, and then pausing behind the center, dawdling amidst men poised and waiting under the trigger of his voice, cataleptic, until the deliverance of himself and them into the future.

[From Paper Lion]

Hunter Thompson notwithstanding, Plimpton was the first modern "Gonzo" Journalist. He boxed with Archie Moore, pitched to Willie Mays and performed as a trapeze artist for the Clyde Beatty-Cole Brothers Circus. He got us all to believe that Sidd Finch was real. I even remember him as the shady professor on The Simpsons who tried to get Lisa to throw the spelling bee. I also sadly remember him as one of the people who wrestled Sirhan Sirhan to the ground after he fatally shot Bobby Kennedy.

I think that the only thing I can add to what has already been written about him is that I envy him. He lived his life on his own terms. He entered realms that most of us only fantasized about as kids. When I'm sitting in my office daydreaming about doing something else, I'll remember that he followed his dreams.

Another one who left us before his time. I'll miss him.

File under Current Events.

7:05:42 PM    Go ahead, make my day  []  trackback []  

It Has Begun

First the Northeast United States. Then London. Now this:

Massive power cut hits Italy. Italy suffers a major electricity failure with unexplained blackouts from Turin to Sicily. [BBC News | News Front Page | UK Edition]

The dress rehearsal for the alien invasion has begun.

File under Current Events.

12:58:19 PM    Go ahead, make my day  []  trackback []