“Dead Man Still Plans To Tell Tale ”

Plimpton’s “Paper Corpse” Pub Date Pushed Back Again


“If anybody can come back and tell us what it’s like being dead, it’s George.” -- Kurt Vonnegut at George Plimpton’s memorial 2004

New York, New York (November 20, 2010) -- Eternity Publishing Corp. said it has postponed the publication date of its long expected “Paper Corpse” volume from George Plimpton in which the writer will report on being dead.

The company said Plimpton indicated he will not be able to deliver the manuscript until the second quarter of 201l. He cited poor accommodations and technical difficulties in this, his second postponement of the manuscript’s due date, originally set for Jan. 1, 2010. The company released the following statement from Plimpton.

“You know, when I was writing my book “Paper Lion,” I used to stick a notebook in my football helmet. Or when I was playing with the New York Philharmonic, I’d jot things down on index cards and stash them in the cymbals case, but down here I can’t seem to find where I put my notes.

That’s why I’m having so much trouble actually writing this piece and getting out of here.

It’s no surprise that this is turning out to be a difficult assignment, Jesus himself only lasted three days down here. Hate to think how he would have done playing goalie for the Blackhawks.

I’ve done the reporting, I’m ready to write this puppy up, I’m certainly not waiting for Lorin Stein or Dan Menacker or someone to say, “Come forth, Plimpton” as Jesus is alleged to have said to his buddy Lazarus, another hack that couldn’t nail this story. I don’t know what the hold up is, exactly, though.

If you look at my reporting on pro football, it is as much about hanging out with the players as it is my brief stints playing their game. But down here, there’s no game and these are some of the dullest characters I’ve ever had to try to animate.

Usually I wish I could stay out longer on these assignments, socializing with the guys on the team or from the orchestra pit and really trying to share their world, but I’m really looking forward to is this being dead story ending.

I’ve never had such an excruciatingly dull assignment. Digging for quotes here is like pulling teeth. Or like pulling teeth up there. Usually, I can’t get a word out of anybody. If I get them to say something, it comes out all garbled. So I write it down as best I can make it out, then I can’t find my notes.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’m ever going to finish this story. I mean, I’m George Plimpton and if there is one thing I’m not an amateur at it’s writing up these “amateur in the midst of professionals” stories for Sports Illustrated or for this outing, Harper’s and Eternity.

What I do with these “participatory journalism” gigs is I do the reporting until I’ve soaked up so much material that I’m sick of the whole topic. That’s how I know its time to stop taking notes and start writing.

I’m not really picking up any new material, but I don’t seem to be able to start writing. There’s the problem with finding the notes, sure, but by now I should at least be able to get started.

I’ve found in the past that the best way to write the story is while you’re still on the scene, while the smell of the lineament from the locker room is still in your nose, but this time I can’t seem to get started and not for the lack of a stench down here, either.

Well, George Plimpton doesn’t panic. I’ll bang the thing out and when I do it will be nice to get back into the swing of things in town.

The only thing I can compare this story with is the time I was the quarterback for the Detroit Lions and I got buried under a blitz. I was only out for about five minutes that time and for this story I’ve been gone much longer. Harpers is going to have a cow when I submit my per diem, never mind the book deal. This death assignment has been worse than when I was initiated into the secret fraternity at Phillips.

Not only are we all bunched up down here, I can tell you there are a lot of people who aren’t our sort. There’s no tennis courts either. I always found carrying the racquets around to be a pain, but down here you can’t find a game even if you’ve got one of those new pod-like bags with seventeen racquets in it.

The only preparation that has been of any use at all was the time Willie Morris dragged me to see that Spanish movie and, what was the director’s name, Bunel, anyway, the last scene in the movie has a version of this afterlife thing with the hero stuck in a nightclub with pop music blaring and it is kind like that here. I keep complaining, but whomever the disc jockey is, he seems never to have heard of Sinatra or even the Beatles. Instead all you hear is this electro synth music, whatever that is, have you ever heard of LCD Soundsystem? We’ve all packed together and it’s worse than the IRT at rush hour with everyone jammed up against each other and this horrible, throbbing music. Some of these people have never been to Cape Cod.

I don’t know how the regulars down here deal with it. I’ve been to some boring cocktail parties. I mean, I love Norman, but to be pigeonholed by that pugnacious pipsqueak with an empty drink in my hand, that used to seem like an eternity, but it’s nothing compared to how time passes down here.

Yes, I see a few people we know, mostly people that were older than our circle. Howard Cosell is down here, still trying to grab sports stars to interview, but there’s no crew with him and no network to broadcast the results so he’s an even sadder figure dead than alive. Arthur Ashe, now there’s the right last name for this place, is still shaking him off.

That’s one thing about being down here, and I’m going to touch on this in my piece, this place, this state of affairs, seems to be easier on the nobodies. If you’ve never had any fame or power, this eternal waiting around is just like an afternoon when you have to get your driver’s license renewed. I’ve always had somebody to do that for me, fortunately.
For people in our crowd, people who had positions or at least a comfortable Park Avenue lifestyle, got out to the Hamptons in the summer, went to the right schools, this place is a comedown. Believe me, when I turn in the story, I’m going to advise people to avoid dying for as long as they can, unless they don’t have much to lose, if they’re poor or wouldn’t know the Loeb Classics from the Post.

What I wouldn’t give to be able to get on my bike and go for a spin. I wonder is it still hanging above Fiona’s desk?

You know, I didn’t get to where I am by being easily discouraged, but it’s hard even for me to be upbeat down here. Everybody mopes around, a lot of the people really aren’t looking too well. Trying to scare up a foursome for bridge is really a challenge.

If I can just break through this whatever it is, I’m going to try to really nail this story so my version of this death thing will be the one that people refer to. I don’t see any editor assigning this kind of piece for a long time because I plan on my take on death becoming the definitive one. God knows, besides spending this time here I’ve done my research. That Mary Roach book is good as is that long fingernails book, but neither of them have the first person component that my story will feature.

I hope I haven’t been gone so long that people have stopped reading this kind of piece, or reading at all.

People up there are so hysterical about things. Let me tell you, if there’s one thing beyond the nuts and bolts, day in and day out, description of life down here that my story is going to cover, what I’m going to take away from this assignment and I hope it lasts well past when I get back to the city and some bastard steals a cab I’m trying to hail or something, is that it pays to take the long view. You might as well enjoy your time up there even if it sometimes seems to consist of nothing more exciting than an endless schedule of speaking engagements.

Oh, about that other thing Lorin asked me to do while I was down here, none of the writers I’ve come across want to sit for one of our interviews. I saw Saul Bellow and he said, “now you ask me? Didn’t have time all those years we were both alive?” He was so unpleasant that I didn’t bother to correct him, to explain I’m only down here on assignment.”