![]() ![]() The children in the living room, however, are trampled to death by the polo mob, but no story was ever writ without a few sad pages ending up in the dustbin. Plimpton mounts his steed and rides away, at one with sport and the world: raconteur, writer, master of the celebrity cameo, gadfly, and more than anything, the world's most boss-ass video game street pusher. A single unmanned horse will see him, recognize the complex touch of a Harvard man, yes, but a Harvard man who understands the animal soul, and whose blue-blooded veins turn an oxygenated vermillion when mixed with the fresh air of the open, wild, classless world. At this instant, a Polo game is rushing toward him. No, this son of a bitch is a famous author and A GAMESMAN. A kind of blank template of a woman is in love with two different men WHO BOTH WANT HER! OMG!!! And it's magical or in the past or something. You're actually part of a secret club, normal person, and not at all mediocre! B. Midwestern? All of us are crying behind closed doors and not talking about feelings and um hey look it's a dead city. Southern? Let me tell you about the bastard that was my daddy, or that time I had to live somewhere else for six months. MOUSTERPIECE THEATRE MANUALSThat's easy, because there are manuals for it and shit. (That author: Eudora Welty, a fine lady, and a hellcat in the erotic arena.)Īny boring white guy can be a famous author. His repertoire isn't just books and longwinded boozy digressions about that time he watched his fellow author throw up into Tito's potted plant at a party. You're not really ever going to convince anyone this is not a Wes Anderson cutaway, but this happened, and now it is the title you never really knew you wanted your entire life but now crave worse than the sweet touch of a lover's engorged genitals. ![]()
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