He let Wayne Walker and Alex Karras hit him for fun in full-contact drills with the Detroit Lions at the age of 36. George Plimpton knows baseball, not because he's just a fan, but because as a practitioner of participatory journalism he's embarrassed himself at pretty much all of them, and then wrote about it. That's how little he cares, probably because he has a third television, one of the cabinet models with a wet bar built into the side.* If this video game-enslaved child had a chance to tell his classmates of a place with two televisions, they would stab him to death from sheer envy, but horses are riding toward the set at this instant, and will kill him before he meets a pointier fate.
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George Plimpton is so rich, and so deeply unconcerned with the obvious superiority of Intellivision, he'll even let children play them just so he can devote his expensive WASP Deadpool self to making his case to America. (Plimpton's servants were not unattractive, it's just that Rip Torn was extremely drunk, and like a nearsighted rhino attacks things indiscriminately.) They only lost one servant in fifteen years of doing this, and that was from Rip Torn mistaking her for a nude Mailer. He does this al fresco, just as he learned from the Yanomamo, and often in tandem with a very intoxicated Norman Mailer. The potted plants all but tell you that George Plimpton releases wild game into his home in order to hunt them with knives in a realistic but well-decorated jungle scene.
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The leather lets you know he is rich, the sailboat lets you know he is actually a 1200 foot tall giant. Translating this to 2012, this is the equivalent of plating colon with tiny flatscreens after every single surface of your house has been covered in beautiful HD displays. Please note that George Plimpton has two televisions. 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. That'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.
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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.