The lives they led
As one or two of you are probably aware, my archrival The New York Times puts together a whole magazine of unremarkable microessays on selected people who have had the luck to die in the past year. In keeping with my recent entries that mention newspapers and media quite too much, I thought I’d do a bit of my own “tallying up” for 2003, in terms of bar patrons who are no longer with us due to their deaths.
My chosen bar has been rather popular among celebrities (my fellow celebrities, I mean), although it does appear to bring a certain curse. In 2003, we lost more than the usual number of regulars, and while the bar is popular among men in their eighties, few of these victims could be said to have reached a ripe old age. A moment of silence, then, for:
Elliott Smith — came in quite a lot when he lived in town; totally unrelated to his depression, I am almost sure — Jameson’s on the rocks
Warren Zevon — he didn’t come to the bar, but his girlfriend did, since she was sleeping with some guys who hung out there — N/A
Edward Said — only one verifiable visit to the bar, but a great thinker nonetheless; his trip was part of a bender that began at the West End after someone’s dissertation defense — Sapphire and tonic
Johnny Cash — no visits to the bar, but in the air every night — N/A
Paul Zindel — quiet, kept to himself mostly, except to regularly complain there was no Sondheim on the jukebox — always four Bud Lites with Coca-Cola backs
Denis Thatcher — would stop by for a pint on state visits during the ’80s, once with fellow 2003 cadaver Donald Regan — Thatcher’s pint was of gin, Regan would have a couple sidecars
Uday Hussein — big tipper, very competitive at the pool table — usually Cosmos
Chevy Chase — not actually dead, but asked not to come back — Jäger shots
No doubt I am forgetting a few. There may be others that I did not meet. Surely they all led lives, of that we can be sure. Bob Hope was never allowed in.
Also, for those of you who remember the Times’ inscrutable advertising from last year, I’ve come up with an adaptation I feel is much more appropriate to the paper-consumed lives that we overinformed, slovenly intellectuals lead:
“I found The New York Times in my house.” “I found The New York Times in my car.”
by Jack, December 26, 2003 5:31 PM | More from Drinking
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I found the New York Times in my bed... actually, the New York Times is my bed... I lost my job at the New York Times when they laid off half of the fact-checkers. We didn't really check any facts, you know. We just called whatever numbers the writers gave us. But we know from Shattered Glass that writers lie.
I didn't see Shattered Glass, by they way. I couldn't afford to. But I read a good review at Slate.com.