George Plimpton lived a life like James Thurber's dreamer, Walter Mitty, except he didn't dream about doing any exciting job in the world. He did the job. And then wrote about it.
Barney Rosset died last week at age 89, and for those who valued his contribution to upholding First Amendment rights in this country, his championing the works of artists, the event truly marks the end of an era.
At the Fights: American Writers on Boxing, a new anthology from The Library of America, reads like an elegy for the fight game.
Back in the day when writers were king, Elaine's was the place for book parties. That's how I first came there, to celebrate new publications by George Plimpton, Kurt Vonnegut.
At Dos Toros, the guacamole is outstanding. It's so good in fact, that with its 92-cent price point, eating it feels like robbing a bank and then escaping scot-free on a school bus.
Many hours of practices, film sessions and coaching were about to culminate in 12 plays at quarterback before my friends, my family, and perhaps most important by now, my coach and the 50 women I was calling "teammates."
I've never felt so sheepish in my life. In my notes from my initial tryout with the Chicago Force women's tackle football team, it says in all caps: "WHAT AM I DOING????"
