We are here together in the sarcastic factory, laughing at every guileless mother and trucker; we are sticking pins into each other. And in the mist of a coffee shop there’s Voodoo Steve Nash himself, four feet tall and so much fatter than on television. But he’s a famous author, so I pay him his due: I heard what you wrote Steve, I told him, I heard it was good, really good. And Steve says, So what? Write something better--I can use it to wipe my ass. His eyes spun like basketballs on his optic nerve; he was pushing my buttons and yanking my crank like I was some ‘losers only’ slot machine. Write something better, he said. Hmm. Well. I promised I’d try, but all I really wanted was to poke out those eyes. And he said, Dear me, my ride’s waiting outside, but I have this one last point to make… Then he picks up his Armani briefcase, walks out the door, steps into the blue sky--and along came a limousine. My ride, he cried. But it ran him over instead. That was sudden, I thought; Christ, he’s done died. And so Steve Nash’s final cry was: “I rest… my [Armani brief-]* case.”
(I’m no great fan of basketball either, but after that episode I’ve had an overwhelming urge to dunk.)
*ed. note
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