What do Laurie Anderson, Yves Montand, George Plimpton, John Cage, fireworks, Peter Gabriel, Merce Cunningham, Allen Ginsberg, Joseph Beuys, Philip Glass, Oingo Boingo, and Nam June Paik have in common? Good Morning, Mr. Orwell, a one hour show broadcast on New Year's Day, 1984. [more inside]
"I called Joe," Stewart remembers, "and asked if he wanted to come to spring training with me. I said, 'The Mets have this pitcher they picked up. They got him pitching in secret, under a big tarp. He has a 168 mile an hour fastball and he plays the French horn and went to Harvard and he was raised in Tibet by Buddhist monks and he pitches with one foot bare and one foot in a boot. And guess what? You're going to be him.'" [more inside]
We just like George Plimpton. Not personally, we never actually knew him. But we like everything we know about him. His intelligence. His good humor. His spirit. We enjoy the way he attacked life with gusto and grace. We appreciate how he proved that a funny upper crust accent and a rather fancy vocabulary doesn't make you any less of a real man. (If nothing else, Plimpton's life proves that once upon a time a man walked the earth who could both read poetry and throw a football.) We admire the way he embodied everything a man of letters is supposed to be; curious and articulate, brave and wise. We are thankful to the way he ceaselessly promoted other writers and artists and how, through his own writings and publications, became a teacher, guide and inspiration to countless others (even those he never met, life, for instance, us). And, finally, we believe a life such as his is worth continued celebration. Because here was a man who threw himself tirelessly into the gaping maw of life, fighting onward, ever smiling, like the truest of gentleman. ALSO, George Plimpton digs Intellivision and thinks its far superior to Atari.