"I soaked it all in, the hurly-burly of adult life: not nearly as bad as I'd feared. it hadn't occurred to me yet that my ambivalence about money informed my appreciation for this line of work, where we reflexively attacked the visibly rich, people like the Viscontis. I sometimes felt that I was cheating at Spy, using humor not as an expression of feeling or principle but as a crafty shortcut, a way of winning the writing game by lowering the stakes. Yet, I felt no urge to ennoble the magazine's mission or to right larger wrongs. I had become a writer because writing came fairly easily, because everyone in the family was overly encouraging about my early work, and, mainly, to seem mysterious and desirable. I hoped my byline would attract women to me, serving as a highway teaser like the Wall Drugs billboards: ONLY TWO THOUSAND MILES TO TAD FRIEND. FREE ICE WATER."
From his forthcoming memoir....click here to get to the Paris Review.
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