11/11/02 - In Which We Steal a Neighbor's Newspaper

Monday, November 11, 2002
Vol. 1, No. 4
In Which We Steal a Neighbor's Newspaper

Hello, and welcome to the fourth installment of NotWriting.com, an open journal on how one writer spends his time when he really should be writing.

When I woke up this morning, I had every intention of writing, but, as often happens, I got distracted. On my way back from picking up my coffee, I noticed my neighbor's New York Times in its crisp, blue plastic bag sitting on the foyer table.

Every day this paper—the only Times I've seen in the building—sits on the table until nine, ten p.m., when its owner probably remembers it, and in the morning it is replaced by a fresh one. Occasionally the papers stack up, however this is rare; once two or three accumulate, other unscrupulous tenants (like me, I guess) decide the rags are public goods and take the latest one.

I tucked the paper under my jacket against my rib cage and pressed the elbow of my coffee-drinking arm against my side to hold it in place. Slick. Stepping into the elevator, I imagined running into the owner of the paper on his way downstairs to pick it up. The person would say how excited he was to read the morning news, how he preferred it over TV and radio, and I, clutching the purloined paper to my side, would nod, smile, and sip my coffee. At my floor, I would say goodbye and go inside to read his newspaper. My wife would ask, "You buy a paper?" And I'd reply, "Nope, stole it." Knowing me and how I work, this wouldn't surprise her and she'd continue getting ready for work.

So I made it back unscathed and unwrapped the paper. To be honest, I was a bit disappointed in this morning's headlines. Like a lot of people who enjoy drama, I prefer the 48pt., page-wide headlines, even though they usually only appear in times of great crisis, like the day after 9/11 and Pearl Harbor. I suppose it comes down to a human need to feel part of an important time in history. Even if your life has no direct bearing on the day's news, when the headline is big, you can at least console yourself with the idea that one day, when you're an old timer, you can say to some young whipper-snappers that you lived through it, whatever it was. Hey, it's better than nothing.

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Alas, there are no major headlines this morning. Instead we'll have to make do with these:

"BUSH'S WAY CLEAR TO PRESS AGENDA FOR THE ECONOMY"
"Fears Increase, But Consumers Keep Spending."
"IRAQ INSPECTIONS RECEIVE APPROVAL FROM ARAB LEAGUE."
"Mr. Outsider Is an Insider (Don't Blink)"
"Arkansas Rice Farmers Run Dry, And U.S. Remedy Sets Off Debate"

Sucky. Below the fold, however, is a picture of a one-legged man who polishes the stars along the Hollywood Walk of Fame. His name is John Peterson, and I'm not sure whether to admire the guy or think he's an idiot. I doubt the stars—especially the current stable of vacuous, nihilistic brats—give a damn that this guy has to drag himself around on one good leg and a stump when kids steal his crutches. Sometimes this is a cruel world.

Turning to the back page of the Metro section, there are only four obituaries and maybe two dozen death notices. The "Deaths" always make me sad because it's clear that these folks' lives didn't warrant a coveted Times obituary. I'm pleased to be able to say that when my grandfather died, ten years ago next month, the Times ran an obituary on him that I wrote. Take that, Times.

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Moving on to Business Day, there is a small picture of Bill Gates with his hands clasped together in mock prayer. He is dressed nicely in a suit and looks up to the heavens as he prays. The headline reads, "Gates to Tour India Amid a Debate." Seems that Bill's going over there to court the country's 500,000 software developers, who are being lured to move over to Linux. Good luck, Bill.

In other business news, Whitney Houston, because of her recent obscurity, a marijuana arrest, and the fact that she is married to a gap-toothed idiot, "has been knocked down a notch" and will now have to promote her new album, due in stores Dec. 10. I know I'm excited. Are you?

I'm about to toss the Business section when I see a picture of that stand-in for the Pillsbury Doughboy, Michael Skakel. Seems that his cousin, Robert F. Kennedy Jr., has written a 14,000-word defense of the tree masturbator that will be published in the January/February issue of The Atlantic Monthly. I wish these spoiled idiots would just go away. Joe Kennedy was a rum-running prick! We don't like you. Beat it.

Finally there's the Arts section, but I'm not even going to bother. I see that Woody Allen, now a sad parody of himself, discussed himself and his psychoanalysis yesterday at the 92nd Street YMCA. Really, who gives a shit?

Oh, and 8 Mile grossed $54.5M this past weekend. Doesn't that give you faith in the future?

I think I'm going to return this paper and try to write something. Have a nice day.

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