Sex, Drugs, And Cocoa Puffs Part 6

This is why killers can shoot men in Reno just to watch them die, and the rest of us usually can't.

15 This Is Zodiac Speaking 1:79 The killing machine wore a cowboy hat, and he was a real sweetheart.

Let me drag you back to the summer of 2001. I was in a karaoke bar in a Washington town called Lacey, a little place outside Olympia, which is a little place outside Seattle. That's when my friend Sarah appears to have danced with a serial killer. Sarah spent ten minutes twirling and whirling to Brooks & Dunn with an (allegedly) f.u.c.ked-up weirdo who may have killed at least five women throughout the Pacific Northwest. I suppose this fella did seem a tad creepy (at least to me), but not in a "I'm gonna drag you home to rape you and kill you and defile your corpse" sort of way. That would be an exaggeration on the behalf of my memory. He just seemed like the kind of person who aspired to buy a used Trans Am and possibly wore Brut cologne.

The bar was a joint strangely called Mehfil, and-for some odd reason-it's attached to an Indian restaurant; you could kind of smell curry fused with warm Budweiser, a.s.suming that's possible (perhaps it was just the scent of lumberjack sweat). The reason we were in Mehfil was because certain friends of mine think karaoke is "fabulously ironic," apparently because stupid, white-trash divorcees often sing Linda Ronstadt's "It's So Easy" in public. What honestly seemed more ironic was that the vast majority of people in this particular bar were semi-intellectual twenty-two-year-old hippies from the nearby fake college of Evergreen, all of whom were trying to feel superior by mocking the (maybe) eight or nine buck-toothed regulars who earnestly sing at Mehfil as an extension of their actual life. In places like Olympia, coolness and condescension are pretty much the same thing.

However, one of those sincere regulars at Mehfil was a man named Michael Braae, and he was getting the last laugh, mostly by (allegedly) killing local girls at random. But we didn't know that at the time, of course; we were just getting hammered on Maker's Mark and Pepsi when Braae sauntered up to my friend Sarah and politely asked her to dance.

Now, Sarah is not exactly Giselle; I can recall that there was at least one other woman at the bar that night who was more striking than she. But Sarah is definitely attractive, and she's a good drinker, and she has luxurious red hair that smells like papayas. Moreover, Sarah just looks nice nice; she is the kind of person who makes you want to tell your secrets. Her eyes are guileless and enthusiastic at the same time. And part of me suspects that's why Michael Braae thought she'd be a perfect girl to dance with, and-at least in theory-shoot in the skull, which is what some investigators believe he did to a girl named March.e.l.le Morgan a month before he was arrested.

Fortunately, Sarah's brush with Braae did not end with any skull shooting. "Cowboy Mike" (that's what everyone called him at the bar) merely danced with her twice (and he was a pretty nifty dancer). We all watched them from across the room. When they finished, Sarah sheepishly ditched him and returned to our table of well-acquainted drunks; later that night, we teased her about having a new boyfriend while picking up some relatively terrible food at a Jack in the Box restaurant. And we never thought about Cowboy Mike again...until the Olympia cops apprehended him four weeks later. Sarah got to see his charming face on the front page of her newspaper. It seems he had jumped off a bridge into Evel Knievel's Snake River, fleeing from local authorities who didn't want him to kill any more of his guileless, enthusiastic, red-haired dance partners.

Somehow, I seem to have acquired three friends who have known serial killers. I find Sarah's encounter especially intriguing, mostly because I happened to witness it firsthand; by total coincidence, I was visiting the very night Braae tried to flirt with her. However, the reason I find that encounter so interesting is not because I sat five feet from an alleged monster, nor is it because I've casually looked into the eyes of evil, nor is it that I feel like I've vicariously brushed against some twisted version of celebrity. It's mostly because something now seems different about Sarah, even though she's exactly the same. There's a s.e.xy residue to the whole Serial Killer Experience; somehow, it morphs the way I look at all the people who simply happened to collide with them (either by choice or by accident). There's something amazingly modern modern about meeting a man who kills innocent strangers arbitrarily. It has a way of making someone's personality abstractly sophisticated. about meeting a man who kills innocent strangers arbitrarily. It has a way of making someone's personality abstractly sophisticated.

This is probably because serial killing is the most modern of high crimes, even though it's not new in any official sense (Jack the Ripper's 1888 London spree is the most obvious proof of this, but there are certainly others). The metaphoric newness of serial killing has nothing to do with chronology; it has to do with its meaning. At least culturally, there is something accelerated about the notion of killing strangers for no valid reason. It's one of those nightmare situations we collectively try to rationalize into nonexistence, almost as if it's entirely fictional. And most of the time, that rationalization makes sense: If a man is trying to kill you, his reasons-though flawed-are still usually usually within the scope of explanation; perhaps he wants to shoot you because you're sleeping with his wife (or perhaps he just thinks you are, which is just as bad). If someone is trying to break into your house after midnight, he probably has a clear motive; he probably needs money to buy crack or crystal meth or Wonder Bread. Most American crime is no random accident. I suppose n.o.body deserves to die, but it certainly seems like most people in America who get murdered have put themselves in a position where getting shot or stabbed is not an unthinkable consequence; their lifestyle dictates a certain degree of risk. However, that's not the case with serial killer victims. I realize serial killers tend to ice prost.i.tutes more often than anyone else, but they're not killing them within the scope of explanation; perhaps he wants to shoot you because you're sleeping with his wife (or perhaps he just thinks you are, which is just as bad). If someone is trying to break into your house after midnight, he probably has a clear motive; he probably needs money to buy crack or crystal meth or Wonder Bread. Most American crime is no random accident. I suppose n.o.body deserves to die, but it certainly seems like most people in America who get murdered have put themselves in a position where getting shot or stabbed is not an unthinkable consequence; their lifestyle dictates a certain degree of risk. However, that's not the case with serial killer victims. I realize serial killers tend to ice prost.i.tutes more often than anyone else, but they're not killing them because because they're prost.i.tutes; it's not like serial killers are s.e.xual moralists. they're prost.i.tutes; it's not like serial killers are s.e.xual moralists.1 Hookers are simply easier to kill (no one notices when they disappear). If given the choice, the typical serial killer would just as soon shoot a dental a.s.sistant. In fact, he'd just as soon shoot someone like Hookers are simply easier to kill (no one notices when they disappear). If given the choice, the typical serial killer would just as soon shoot a dental a.s.sistant. In fact, he'd just as soon shoot someone like you, you, and maybe someday he will. This is why serial killing strikes me as such a modern act: It validates the seemingly irrational fear that someone you've never met before will just decide to capriciously end your life. It's not and maybe someday he will. This is why serial killing strikes me as such a modern act: It validates the seemingly irrational fear that someone you've never met before will just decide to capriciously end your life. It's not figuratively figuratively senseless (like a gangland killing, which is stupid but still explicable), it's senseless (like a gangland killing, which is stupid but still explicable), it's literally literally senseless (inasmuch as there's no connection between the two involved parties and no benefit to the a.s.sailant, beyond giving him the opportunity to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e on-or into-a corpse). senseless (inasmuch as there's no connection between the two involved parties and no benefit to the a.s.sailant, beyond giving him the opportunity to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e on-or into-a corpse).

My obsession with serial killers began when I was ten years old. My fourth-grade teacher told our cla.s.s that we should never hitchhike, because the only people who picked up hitchhikers were perverted serial killers. This advice was complicated by what my fifth-grade teacher told us the following year; she said that we would all have driver's licenses in a few years, and the one rule we always needed to remember was never to pick up hitchhikers. This was because all hitchhikers were serial killers. According to what I learned in public school, every person on every freeway was trolling for destruction. I used to imagine nomadic, s.a.d.i.s.tic drifters thumbing rides with bloodthirsty Volkswagen owners, both desperately waiting for the first opportunity to kill each other. Hitchhiking seemed like an ultraviolent race against time.

Keeping this threat in mind, I began casually studying serial killers in my spare time, mostly through TV doc.u.mentaries on PBS and British books with comical names like The Mammoth Book of Murder The Mammoth Book of Murder and and The Mammoth Book of Killer Women The Mammoth Book of Killer Women. Due to my age (and my interest in the band W.A.S.P.), I suspect part of me was intrigued by the necrophilia gruesomeness of the police reports. However, what I found more fascinating were the skewed details about the killers' lives, all of which seemed more original and more cliched than anything I experienced through literature or film. It didn't "almost" seem funny; it seemed completely completely funny, pretty much all the time. I will never forget the 1985 arrest of Richard Ramirez, the infamous California "Night Stalker." At one point in his court hearing, Ramirez held up his hand with a pentagram scrawled on the palm and hissed the word funny, pretty much all the time. I will never forget the 1985 arrest of Richard Ramirez, the infamous California "Night Stalker." At one point in his court hearing, Ramirez held up his hand with a pentagram scrawled on the palm and hissed the word "Evil!" "Evil!" My cousin Greg and I were twelve when this happened, and we saw this particular image on television while attending a weeklong Catholic retreat that was hosted by local nuns. For the whole week, we drew pentagrams on our paws with ballpoint pens and constantly said My cousin Greg and I were twelve when this happened, and we saw this particular image on television while attending a weeklong Catholic retreat that was hosted by local nuns. For the whole week, we drew pentagrams on our paws with ballpoint pens and constantly said "Evil!" "Evil!" in the hope of amusing the girls at this event, most of whom loved Culture Club and wore Esprit T-shirts. This was the same week we learned how to be altar boys. in the hope of amusing the girls at this event, most of whom loved Culture Club and wore Esprit T-shirts. This was the same week we learned how to be altar boys.

However, my interest in guys like Ramirez went a little further than Greg's, since he only only saw all this as comical. At a very early age, an understanding of serial killers seemed important to me. The fact that Ramirez and I had the same favorite AC/DC song ( "Night Prowler") didn't freak me out, but it certainly made me wonder if I was somehow predisposed to freakish impulses. My all-time favorite serial killer was the never-captured Zodiac, the San Franciscobased mastermind who bragged to newspapers about his murders through a byzantine code and may have actually killed people because of his interest in math. saw all this as comical. At a very early age, an understanding of serial killers seemed important to me. The fact that Ramirez and I had the same favorite AC/DC song ( "Night Prowler") didn't freak me out, but it certainly made me wonder if I was somehow predisposed to freakish impulses. My all-time favorite serial killer was the never-captured Zodiac, the San Franciscobased mastermind who bragged to newspapers about his murders through a byzantine code and may have actually killed people because of his interest in math.2 Somehow, that sounded like something I would come up with. I didn't Somehow, that sounded like something I would come up with. I didn't relate relate to these guys, per se, but I always wondered if I was a "serial person"-a Midwestern Zodiac who simply had no desire to kill. to these guys, per se, but I always wondered if I was a "serial person"-a Midwestern Zodiac who simply had no desire to kill.

This is why I can't resist badgering my acquaintances who have encountered genuine madmen; perhaps my obsession with serial killers has less to do with what makes them different from everyone else and more to do with what makes them similar to those of us who don't feel compelled to kill hookers. As I said, I have three such chums: Beyond serving as a firsthand witness to Sarah's dance-a-thon with the second-rate death machine Cowboy Mike, I also know a guy who became friends with John Wayne Gacy (the much publicized "Clown Killer") and another who attended high school with Jeffrey Dahmer (the most stridently prototypical serial killer in pop history). Much to their unilateral annoyance, I continually find myself compelled to ask them different versions of the same question: What does it mean to know a serial killer? What does it mean to know a serial killer? And it seems like the answer is the same every single time. And it seems like the answer is the same every single time.

It was on the last day of 2001 that I discovered I knew a man who knew John Wayne Gacy (or maybe it was on the first day of 2002, depending on how you quantify time). Near the conclusion of a rather dull New Year's Eve party, I found myself chatting with a dude named Eric Nuzum, who works as the programming director for the National Public Radio station in Kent, Ohio. I was mostly arguing with his clever Asian girlfriend about the value of Bjork (she seemed to think Bjork was the cat's pajamas), but the conversation somehow touched tangentially on the fact that Nuzum has one of John Wayne Gacy's paintings hanging in his living room. I was immediately curious about this, but I found that Nuzum was reticent to talk about the subject (beyond casually admitting that he did, in fact, have one of Gacy's paintings and that he did, in fact, carry on a friendship with the sociopath for roughly three years while the ex-clown sat on death row). I managed to pry a few more details about this relationship from him at the party, but I could tell he wasn't exactly stoked about being hammered with questions about Gacy in the context of a New Year's Eve fiesta. However, I asked him if I could interview him at length about Gacy at a later date, and he said, "Oh, probably." When I e-mailed him about that possibility a month later, he was clearly more enthusiastic about having such a conversation. And by the time I finally showed up at his house, he seemed downright excited excited to be talking about John Wayne Gacy, at times behaving like I was a psychiatrist and he was a patient reminiscing about formative experiences from his childhood. It almost felt like the old to be talking about John Wayne Gacy, at times behaving like I was a psychiatrist and he was a patient reminiscing about formative experiences from his childhood. It almost felt like the old Bob Newhart Show Bob Newhart Show.

What happened, I think, was that my journalistic interest in Nuzum's relationship with Gacy-as opposed to my prurient interest in Gacy himself-sort of jarred Eric into realizing that there was something noteworthy about having made small talk with someone who was about as nocuous as any twentieth-century American. This is especially true when one considers that Nuzum was not some kind of obsessive death groupie; his involvement with Gacy stemmed from involvement with an anticensorship group called Refuse and Resist (Nuzum is something of a First Amendment fanatic, having written a book t.i.tled Parental Advisory: Music Censorship in America Parental Advisory: Music Censorship in America). It seems Nuzum had discovered that Gacy was the only inmate in the entire Illinois penal system who wasn't allowed to sell his paintings commercially, and-being the s.p.u.n.ky twenty-four-year-old idealist that he was-Nuzum decided to remedy this injustice. His first step was contacting Gacy by mail (he had to make sure Gacy wanted wanted to be liberated), and things just kind of took off from there. to be liberated), and things just kind of took off from there.

Like most incarcerated humans, Gacy loved mail; unlike most incarcerated humans, Gacy was picky about his friends. When anyone wrote to him, he returned a typed, two-page survey that asked fifty-two questions about artistic affinities, political ideologies, and personal values. Nuzum still has that form. The most ironic section of the questionnaire asks the applicant to describe what kind of advice he or she would offer to children; one a.s.sumes Gacy's honest advis.e.m.e.nt would have been, "Don't struggle while I sodomize you." But the bottom line is that Nuzum responded to the fifty-two questions and slowly found himself a new pen pal. After a year of writing, Gacy began calling him on the telephone (collect, of course).

"He had HBO in his cell, so we talked about what was on HBO a lot," Nuzum recalls. "He liked cla.s.sic movies, but he really seemed more interested in mainstream c.r.a.p like Footloose Footloose. His tastes weren't very sophisticated. But sometimes I suspect that he liked big, bang-up Hollywood movies like Patriot Games Patriot Games because he knew they were culturally popular with people on the outside, and that made him feel more normal." because he knew they were culturally popular with people on the outside, and that made him feel more normal."

While Nuzum was telling me about Gacy's appreciation for the early work of Kevin Bacon, I found my eyes drifting over to the rudimentary portrait of Elvis Presley on his wall. This was the painting he had mentioned at the party. The image was of a relatively young Elvis, sadly staring at the ground against a sky-blue background. In the lower right corner, I could see the signature of "J.W. Gacy." It's not a stellar painting; I doubt Nuzum would hang it in his living room if it didn't come from someone who snuffed the life out of thirty-three Chicagoans and stuffed them into the crawl s.p.a.ce beneath his home.

Now, I realize there are people who would find Nuzum's decorating decision pretty f.u.c.ked-up. They wouldn't hang one of Gacy's paintings in their house if he had twice the talent of Pica.s.so, and some might even suggest that Nuzum inadvertently perpetuates the gothic glamour of ma.s.s murder; by hanging a mediocre painting in this living room, it proves that (a) Gacy is a celebrity, and (b) killing people warrants celebrity stature. I don't think it's a coincidence that America is the most celebrity-driven culture on earth and and the homeland for more serial killers than virtually every other country combined. Serial killing is glam killing (or at least it seems that way after a culprit gets caught). the homeland for more serial killers than virtually every other country combined. Serial killing is glam killing (or at least it seems that way after a culprit gets caught).

But here's where things get complex: Nuzum is barely interested in Gacy's murders. It's really the one aspect of history's most sinister clown3 he doesn't enjoy discussing. However, I don't think it's because he's in any sort of denial; Nuzum is certain that Gacy did terrible, terrible things. It's just that Eric happens to be one of those hyperkinetic NPR liberals who spends his free time rescuing kittens from the pound. The deeper reality, I suspect, is that he feels he doesn't enjoy discussing. However, I don't think it's because he's in any sort of denial; Nuzum is certain that Gacy did terrible, terrible things. It's just that Eric happens to be one of those hyperkinetic NPR liberals who spends his free time rescuing kittens from the pound. The deeper reality, I suspect, is that he feels sorry sorry for John Wayne Gacy, and that-somehow-he was part of a society that makes people like Gacy exist. for John Wayne Gacy, and that-somehow-he was part of a society that makes people like Gacy exist.

"I guess I always had this image of a brilliant, maniacal genius who constructed these complicated plans to satisfy his s.e.xual urges and kill, kill, kill," Nuzum tells with his fingers interlocked behind his head and his pupils fixed on the ceiling. "But the fact of the matter is that he really wasn't that smart. There's such a vast difference between trying to understand this kind of crime and trying to understand anything else. With someone like O. J. Simpson, you could argue that he killed two people and he knew exactly what he was doing. With someone like Timothy McVeigh, one a.s.sumes he was able to rationalize the 168 people he killed as causalities of war. But this is different. You know, Gacy always insisted to me that he never killed animals when he was younger, which is usually common with serial killers. For him, it was all s.e.xually based. That was his motivation for everything. But what does that mean? I still don't understand it."

It sort of dawned on me that-the more I talked to Nuzum about this-the further our conversation devolved from the original "What does it mean to know a serial killer" question, which indicated to me that I probably wasn't going to find the answer from him. All I really learned was that I am less compa.s.sionate than just about everyone I know. If I had known John Wayne Gacy, I suspect I would have been fascinated by his impending execution; I would have constantly asked him about his thoughts on death and his expectations for the afterlife, and how the experience of living changes once your life suddenly has an exact expiration date. To me, his lethal injection would have been the summit of our rapport. But Nuzum didn't see it like that at all.

"I was very upset when he was put to death," Eric told me. "In fact, when it became obvious that it was just a matter of time, that's when our relationship ended. I stopped accepting his collect calls. I would like to say that I cut things off because his phone calls got weird-and they certainly did near the end, because he'd ramble for twenty minutes and I wouldn't even say a sentence-but the truth is that it just got hard to think about what it was going to be like when he was dead.

"If I learned anything from the time I knew him, though, it's that I think I now have a wider view of heinous crimes than most people. Once you get to know a murderer as a person, you actually start to rationalize things less, and you start to see things more clearly. For example, one time we were talking on the phone very casually about television, and one of the guards happened to walk by Gacy while we were talking. Gacy immediately freaked out and started raving about how this person had woken him up the night before by shining a flashlight on him. Judging from Gacy's reaction, you would have sworn this guard raped his mother. He lost control and just went ballistic. But thirty seconds later, he was completely fine. And I remember thinking, 'I can totally see how this person could kill children.' He was just a guy with a huge problem."

Jeffrey Dahmer had a problem, too. In fact, he had a bunch of them, and they kept getting worse. He was an alcoholic (not good). He was a self-loathing h.o.m.os.e.xual (even worse). He was a murderer (which downplays the s.e.xual struggle), he was a cannibal (maybe the only habit that makes murdering people seem borderline normal), and he longed to surround himself with corpses in the hope that they would become surrogates for the human relationships he could not sustain in day-to-day life ('nuff said). There isn't a dimension of serial killer lore that Dahmer didn't embody, including the obligatory tortured adolescence. When he was a high school student in Ohio, Dahmer life's was profoundly sad and predictably disturbing. I know this because that's when Derf used to hang out with him.

"Derf" is John Backderf, a comic book artist I worked with at a newspaper in Akron, Ohio. Dahmer is a huge deal in Akron, because that's his hometown. Technically, he graduated from a joint educational facility called Revere High School, which was comprised of kids from two small towns: Bath (a relatively affluent suburb) and Richfield (a town best known for hosting the now-destroyed Richfield Coliseum, the former home for countless hair metal concerts and the Cleveland Cavaliers). But for all practical purposes, those communities are just extensions of suburban Akron. And what's interesting about Akron is that-due to a variety of socioeconomic reasons-the community tends to sp.a.w.n things that could not have come from anywhere else in America. The band Devo is one example. Jeffrey Dahmer is another.

I had been working at the Akron Beacon Journal Akron Beacon Journal for less than a month when someone told me that Derf grew up with Dahmer, which was weird for two reasons. The first is obvious-it's always surprising to meet someone who used to have gym cla.s.s with a cannibal. However, what was even stranger is that I had never even met this Derf character; some coworker just felt compelled to tell me there was a person on staff who went to high school with J. Dahmer. This same person also told me that the legal name of Derf's little son Max was supposedly "Maximum Volume Backderf," which seemed only slightly less unreasonable than eating from the corpse of a Milwaukee h.o.m.os.e.xual. for less than a month when someone told me that Derf grew up with Dahmer, which was weird for two reasons. The first is obvious-it's always surprising to meet someone who used to have gym cla.s.s with a cannibal. However, what was even stranger is that I had never even met this Derf character; some coworker just felt compelled to tell me there was a person on staff who went to high school with J. Dahmer. This same person also told me that the legal name of Derf's little son Max was supposedly "Maximum Volume Backderf," which seemed only slightly less unreasonable than eating from the corpse of a Milwaukee h.o.m.os.e.xual.

When I eventually met Derf that summer, he turned out to be very cool; he was sort of this uber uber-sarcastic, unrepentant, aging punk rocker who always wore a Greek fishing hat and would stroll by my desk twice a week to tell me that every band I liked was terrible. And when I finally asked him if he really knew Dahmer, his reaction was to say, "Well, of course I did," as if I had just asked him if he hated Pink Floyd's The Wall The Wall. He proceeded to give me a comic he published t.i.tled My Friend Dahmer, My Friend Dahmer, an ill.u.s.trated twenty-six-page narrative of his youthful memories of a demented scamp known simply as "Jeff." an ill.u.s.trated twenty-six-page narrative of his youthful memories of a demented scamp known simply as "Jeff."

Without being the least bit exploitive, My Friend Dahmer My Friend Dahmer paints an eerily vivid portrait of the young Akronian weirdo and suggests that all the signs of his future monstrosities would have been clearly visible to anyone who had cared enough to pay attention. The t.i.tle is technically misleading, as Dahmer appears to have had no real friends whatsoever in high school-but Derf and his geeky cronies were probably the closest approximation. They would pay him $35 to go to the local mall and perform his "Dahmer shtick," which amounted to him pretending to have cerebral palsy (it seems his mother's interior decorator suffered from the condition, prompting Dahmer to mimic the spastic, seizure like movements). Dahmer's preperformance ritual was to shotgun six beers in the backseat of a car, which was the same thing he did every single day before school. Beyond the summer after tenth grade, Derf can't recall ever seeing Dahmer when he wasn't either "in character" or completely and utterly intoxicated. paints an eerily vivid portrait of the young Akronian weirdo and suggests that all the signs of his future monstrosities would have been clearly visible to anyone who had cared enough to pay attention. The t.i.tle is technically misleading, as Dahmer appears to have had no real friends whatsoever in high school-but Derf and his geeky cronies were probably the closest approximation. They would pay him $35 to go to the local mall and perform his "Dahmer shtick," which amounted to him pretending to have cerebral palsy (it seems his mother's interior decorator suffered from the condition, prompting Dahmer to mimic the spastic, seizure like movements). Dahmer's preperformance ritual was to shotgun six beers in the backseat of a car, which was the same thing he did every single day before school. Beyond the summer after tenth grade, Derf can't recall ever seeing Dahmer when he wasn't either "in character" or completely and utterly intoxicated.

People picked on Dahmer, but he didn't respond; he mostly existed as a zombie who occasionally blurted out the indecipherable phrase "Baaaa!" at inappropriate times. He was a victim waiting to become a victimizer. And he finally made that transition one month after he, Derf, and two hundred other kids graduated from Revere. It was the summer of 1978, and Jeffrey destroyed his first human.

"Believe it not, I consider Dahmer something of a tragic figure," Derf once told me while munching on a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. "My relationship with him ended just before he killed that first guy, but I honestly believe he could have been stopped. Some adult could have stepped in when he was younger, I think, and changed the path he was on. But the moment he actually killed someone, any sympathy I might have had for him disappeared. When he crossed over to the other side, he became a monster to me, and he deserved a bullet in the back of the head."

Certainly, there is something paradoxical about Derf's a.s.sessment of Dahmer. His portrait of J.D. in My Friend Dahmer My Friend Dahmer aggressively humanizes the killer, often to the point where he becomes almost likable. However, the moment Dahmer took someone's life, Derf says his perception suddenly mirrored that of the rest of America. And as our conversation continued, I started to suspect Derf's relationship with this guy was a little more complicated than even Derf was aware of. This was particularly clear when I asked him if he was aggressively humanizes the killer, often to the point where he becomes almost likable. However, the moment Dahmer took someone's life, Derf says his perception suddenly mirrored that of the rest of America. And as our conversation continued, I started to suspect Derf's relationship with this guy was a little more complicated than even Derf was aware of. This was particularly clear when I asked him if he was glad glad that Dahmer went to Revere High. My specific question was this: If we concede that Dahmer was destined to commit these crimes regardless of where he grew up, would Derf have preferred that Jeffrey been raised in someplace like Cincinnati or Dayton, thereby making him someone he never knew? Or is he happy that-if that Dahmer went to Revere High. My specific question was this: If we concede that Dahmer was destined to commit these crimes regardless of where he grew up, would Derf have preferred that Jeffrey been raised in someplace like Cincinnati or Dayton, thereby making him someone he never knew? Or is he happy that-if someone someone had to go to the mall with the young Dahmer-it was him? had to go to the mall with the young Dahmer-it was him?

"Well, since I've led an exceedingly dull life in all other regards, having known Dahmer has certainly been periodically interesting and sporadically surreal," he answered. "For example, last night I was watching one of those Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live reruns on Comedy Central. It was an episode from one of the really bad years. But there was this skit where a guy is singing some stupid song, and he mentions Jeffrey Dahmer. And it suddenly hits me that he's talking about a guy I used to pa.s.s in the halls every day. That never stops being strange, I guess. But is it really reruns on Comedy Central. It was an episode from one of the really bad years. But there was this skit where a guy is singing some stupid song, and he mentions Jeffrey Dahmer. And it suddenly hits me that he's talking about a guy I used to pa.s.s in the halls every day. That never stops being strange, I guess. But is it really interesting interesting? I don't know. I mean, how interesting would it have been to have known Michael J. Fox in high school? It's kind of the same thing."

It's noteworthy that Derf mentions Michael J. Fox as a metaphor for knowing Dahmer; Nuzum made a similar comparison when discussing John Wayne Gacy, but his metaphor was Cameron Diaz. I suspect this kind of celebrity a.n.a.logy is common. However, part of me deeply disagrees with the accuracy of those comparisons, and here's why: The fame a serial killer achieves is a sicker-but more authentic-brand of fame. There are thousands of thin young women in Hollywood who wanted to be Cameron Diaz, and hundreds of them could have done exactly that. There are five hundred girls who could have had her career. There is nothing inherently special about Cameron Diaz; until she made a movie, she was just an attractive person. At some point, she became became Cameron Diaz. But Jeffrey Dahmer didn't Cameron Diaz. But Jeffrey Dahmer didn't become become Jeffrey Dahmer the first time he killed somebody. That's always who he was. Derf claims he "turned into a monster" the day he killed his first victim, but I think that's mostly just what he'd like to believe; more than almost anyone, Derf knows that Dahmer was always just a guy who couldn't (or at least Jeffrey Dahmer the first time he killed somebody. That's always who he was. Derf claims he "turned into a monster" the day he killed his first victim, but I think that's mostly just what he'd like to believe; more than almost anyone, Derf knows that Dahmer was always just a guy who couldn't (or at least didn't didn't) relate to the normal boundaries of right and wrong. To know that kind of person is to know the darkest kind of power. To me, that has to mean something. But Derf will always disagree with me.

"What kind of meaning would you expect this to have? The guy was a parasite," Derf tells me, his mouth still half-filled with Cheerios. "He gave nothing to society, and his effect on me is pretty negligible. What is there to learn? These questions seem like bulls.h.i.t to me."

Which brings us back to little red-haired Sarah...

"I really must say that I feel sort of ambivalent about the whole Cowboy Mike situation," Sarah tells me over the phone. She has just finished her second beer of the night, but she does not seem drunk; her boyfriend is trying to fall asleep in the other room. "In a way, I think you care about this more than I do. Because honestly, I would say my knowledge of serial killers is slightly below average."

This is funny for two reasons. It's mainly funny because Sarah has inexplicably concluded that there is (a) a universally accepted level for serial murder knowledge, and that (b) she somehow falls just below the national median. But it's also funny because it's true; if I didn't keep bringing it up, I sometimes think Sarah would completely forget she danced with a man who might have killed her if given the opportunity.

"That night was actually something I tried not to think about for several months, and I guess I succeeded," she said. "It initially seemed strange in the sense that I suppose I could have ended up like one of those women on those Lifetime movies who are always getting beaten. Had I been single, something terrible could have happened that night. I certainly can't imagine that I would ever have gone home with that person, but I can imagine maybe having a cigarette with the guy. He was really a gentleman. And he didn't so much seem creepy creepy as much as he just seemed unusually skinn as much as he just seemed unusually skinn y y."

Well, great. Serial killers aren't necessarily spooky; they simply have high metabolisms. And they like to watch Footloose Footloose. And to know them means nothing, even if it does. Apparently, there is no one on earth who needs to meet a serial killer more than me; only then will I realize these people are meaningless. Get ready, all ye lonely hitchhikers. My car awaits your empty eyes, your random perversity, and your hand of perpetual doom. One way or the other, I need the truth. The next dance is mine, Cowboy.

1. It should be noted that certain experts disagree with me on this point; some are p.r.o.ne to cla.s.sify one genre of serial killers as "mission-oriented," which means they aspire to kill specific people (such as hookers) in order to improve society. Other cla.s.sifications include "visionary motive" types (who imagine voices inside their head), "thrill-oriented" killers (who find the process of murder exciting), and "l.u.s.t killers" (who actively get a s.e.xual thrill from torture and execution).

2. One of the Zodiac's many coded missives included a reference to the semi-esoteric mathematical concept of "radians," which are 57.3-degree arcs used to calculate circles (2 x pi radians = 360 degrees). Amazingly, it turns out Zodiac's victims were always found at perfect radian intervals in relation to the summit of nearby Mount Diablo. It does not appear that this could be a coincidence, especially since one of Zodiac's victims was a cabdriver who was instructed to drive to a specific location before being shot. This kind of "evil mathematical genius" behavior is part of the reason some people erroneously suspected that Unabomber Ted Kaczynski had been the Zodiac Killer as a younger man.

3. In fact, Eric gets kind of annoyed when people dwell on the fact that Gacy sometimes dressed as "Pogo the Clown" and performed at children's birthday parties. "I think the clown stuff is really overdone," he says. "He was just doing that as part of a civic group-it was really just an outreach of his political involvement." Weirdly, this is true: Gacy was a political junkie who was once photographed with thenFirst Lady Rosalynn Carter. You'd think the GOP could do something with this.

Timothy McVeigh was executed on June 11 of 2001. Around the time of his execution, the Chicago Tribune Chicago Tribune ran a breakdown of all 168 people killed in the Oklahoma City bombing. Here are some examples of how the victims were mentioned: ran a breakdown of all 168 people killed in the Oklahoma City bombing. Here are some examples of how the victims were mentioned: Donald Earl Burns Sr., 63, taught woodworking for many years.

John Van Ess, 67, played national championship basketball as a student at Oklahoma A&M.

Karen Gist Carr, 32, was a member of Toastmasters International.

There's nothing intrinsically wrong with any of those details. However, as I read and reread every little bio on the list, I found myself deflated by the realization that virtually everyone's life is only remembered for one thing. J. D. Salinger wrote Catcher in the Rye Catcher in the Rye; for all practical purposes, that's it. He may as well have done nothing else, ever. As time pa.s.ses, that book becomes his singular legacy. He's certainly famous, but 98 percent of the world doesn't know about anything else he's ever done. Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin; every other element of his existence is totally irrelevant. Bill Buckner let a ground ball go through his legs in the World Series and cost the Red Sox a championship; in fifty years, everything else about his career will be a footnote.

This doesn't just apply to second-rate celebrities, either. It's equally true for normal citizens (case in point: Oklahoma City bombing victim Oleta Christine Biddy was undoubtedly a complex human, but the readers of the Chicago Tribune Chicago Tribune only know that she "always had a smile on her face"). Beyond your closest friends, you can probably describe everyone you know with one sentence. only know that she "always had a smile on her face"). Beyond your closest friends, you can probably describe everyone you know with one sentence.

I think this is what motivates people to have children. Everyone agrees that creating life is important, so having a child guarantees you've done at least one act of consequence. Moreover, it extends the window for greatness; if your kid becomes president, your biography becomes "the parent of a president." The import of your existence can be validated by whoever you bring into the world. But this doesn't always work. In fact, sometimes it makes things worse. Which is why the most depressing thing about the Oklahoma City bombing is that there's now an innocent woman whose one-sentence newspaper bio will forever be, "She was Timothy McVeigh's mother."

16 All I Know Is What I Read in the Papers 1:95 As of the writing of this particular book, I have 43 "close friends,"1 196 "good friends," 196 "good friends,"2 and 2,200 "affable acquaintances." and 2,200 "affable acquaintances."3 Due to the circ.u.mstances of my chosen existence, almost half of these people-somewhere in the neighborhood of 40 percent-currently work (or once worked) in some sort of media capacity. This means that the other 60 percent do not (or have not). This being the mathematical case, I feel as though I have a pretty solid grasp on the communication industry, as I have ties to both (a) the people presenting the news and (b) the people consuming it. And it has been my experience that they all pretty much hate it. Due to the circ.u.mstances of my chosen existence, almost half of these people-somewhere in the neighborhood of 40 percent-currently work (or once worked) in some sort of media capacity. This means that the other 60 percent do not (or have not). This being the mathematical case, I feel as though I have a pretty solid grasp on the communication industry, as I have ties to both (a) the people presenting the news and (b) the people consuming it. And it has been my experience that they all pretty much hate it.

I would never try to convince someone not to hate the media. As far as I can tell, it's a completely reasonable thing to hate. Whenever I meet someone who feels a sense of hatred for a large, amorphous body-the media, the government, Ticketmaster, the Illuminati, Anna Nicole Smith, whatever-I fully support their distaste. It's always better to be mad at something vast and unspecific and theoretical, as these ent.i.ties cannot sue you for defamation. But here's my one problem with media bashers, both inside and outside the journalistic profession: They inevitably hate the wrong things. Just about everyone I know who has problems with newspapers (or magazines, or CNN, or Ted Koppel, et al.) is completely misdirecting their anger.

You say you want to hate the media? Fine. I happen to love the media, and I think it's just about the only organism in America that works more often than it doesn't. But if you're truly serious about finding things to hate about your local newspaper, and you want to write letters to the editor that will actually make valid criticisms, I will help you.

Don't Worry About Agendas.

Worry About Random Circ.u.mstance.

This is-indisputably and in arguably-the biggest misconception people make about the media. Everybody seems to be concerned that journalists are constantly trying to slip their own political and philosophical beliefs into what they cover. This virtually never happens. And I am not being naive when I say this; it really doesn't happen.4 There are thousands of things that affect the accuracy of news stories, but the feelings of the actual reporter is almost never one of them. The single most important impact of any story is far less sinister: Mostly, it all comes down to (a) who the journalist has called, and (b) which of those people happens to call back first. There are thousands of things that affect the accuracy of news stories, but the feelings of the actual reporter is almost never one of them. The single most important impact of any story is far less sinister: Mostly, it all comes down to (a) who the journalist has called, and (b) which of those people happens to call back first.

Are media outlets controlled by ma.s.sive, conservative corporations? Well, of course they are. Ma.s.sive conservative corporations own everything. Are most individual members of the media politically liberal? Absolutely. If talented writers honestly thought the world didn't need to be changed, they'd take jobs in advertising that are half as difficult and three times as lucrative. So-in theory-all the long-standing conspiracies about media motives are true. But-in practice-they're basically irrelevant, at least in the newspaper industry. There is no way the espoused Aryan masterminds who run the world can affect the content of any daily story; they usually have no idea what the h.e.l.l is going on with anything in the world, and certainly not with what anyone's writing about. I worked in the Knight Ridder chain for four years, and I never got the impression that the CEO read anything, except maybe Golf Digest Golf Digest.

The media machine is too bloated to "manufacture consent." What filters down from the queen bee is nominal; there is no successful macro agenda. Meanwhile, individual reporters-the drones who do all the heavy lifting-tend to be insane. Being a news reporter forces you to adopt a peculiar personality: You spend every moment of your life trying to eradicate emotion. Reporters overcompensate for every non.o.bjective feeling they've ever experienced; I once got into a serious discussion over whether or not the theft of a live fetus from the womb of a kidnapped pregnant woman could be publicly cla.s.sified as a "tragedy." What civilians in the conventional world need to realize is that journalists are not like you. journalists are not like you. They have higher ethics and less common sense. For example: Let's say somebody was trying to pa.s.s a resolution that created stricter pedophilia laws. Most normal people would think to themselves, "Well, I'm against kids being molested and so is everybody I've ever met, so-obviously-if I was asked to write a story about this resolution, I'd make sure people understood it was a positive thing." Reporters never think like this. A reporter would spend the next three hours trying to find an activist who'd give them a quote implying it was unconst.i.tutional to stop people from performing oral s.e.x on five-year-old boys. Journalists aren't trying to tell you their version of what's right and what's wrong, because anyone who's been a reporter for five years forgets how to tell the difference. They have higher ethics and less common sense. For example: Let's say somebody was trying to pa.s.s a resolution that created stricter pedophilia laws. Most normal people would think to themselves, "Well, I'm against kids being molested and so is everybody I've ever met, so-obviously-if I was asked to write a story about this resolution, I'd make sure people understood it was a positive thing." Reporters never think like this. A reporter would spend the next three hours trying to find an activist who'd give them a quote implying it was unconst.i.tutional to stop people from performing oral s.e.x on five-year-old boys. Journalists aren't trying to tell you their version of what's right and what's wrong, because anyone who's been a reporter for five years forgets how to tell the difference.

That's why the biggest influence on the content of most news stories is simply who calls back first first. Most of the time, that's the catalyst for everything else that evolves into a news story. Since breaking the news is a compet.i.tion-based industry, almost everything is done on deadline-and since journalism is founded on the premise that reality can only be shown through other people's statements, reporters are constantly placing phone calls to multiple sources with the hope that all of them (or at least one one of them) will give the obligatory quotes the writer can turn into a narrative. That's why the first person who happens to return a reporter's phone message dictates whatever becomes the "final truth" of any story. Very often, the twenty-four-second-shot clock simply runs out before anyone else can be reached; consequently, that one returned phone call is all the information the journalist can use. And even when everyone else of them) will give the obligatory quotes the writer can turn into a narrative. That's why the first person who happens to return a reporter's phone message dictates whatever becomes the "final truth" of any story. Very often, the twenty-four-second-shot clock simply runs out before anyone else can be reached; consequently, that one returned phone call is all the information the journalist can use. And even when everyone else does does calls back before deadline, the template has already been set by whoever got there first; from now on, every question the reporter asks will be colored by whatever was learned from the initial source. Is this bad? Yes. Does it sometimes lead to a twisted version of what really happened? Yes. But it's not an agenda. It's timing. calls back before deadline, the template has already been set by whoever got there first; from now on, every question the reporter asks will be colored by whatever was learned from the initial source. Is this bad? Yes. Does it sometimes lead to a twisted version of what really happened? Yes. But it's not an agenda. It's timing.

Don't obsess over the notion of insidious politics creeping into your newspaper. Leftist crackpots and faceless corporate hacks rarely affect the news. High school volleyball games affect the news-or at least they do if a reporter's kid happens to be one of the players. You see, high school volleyball games often start at 6:30 P P.M., so that reporter is not going to wait at his desk past six o'clock to see if his phone rings. His wife will kill him if he does. Or maybe he does does wait for that call; maybe he skips his daughter's game because he really needs the mayor to return his phone call in order to technically say "no comment" about an issue that the reporter already wait for that call; maybe he skips his daughter's game because he really needs the mayor to return his phone call in order to technically say "no comment" about an issue that the reporter already knows knows the mayor won't comment upon. Maybe our steadfast reporter waits and waits and waits, and at 7:20 he decides to get a Dr Pepper. This requires him to walk across the newsroom to wherever they keep the vending machines, and-while he pops his quarters into the pop machine-his phone rings. It's the mayor. But maybe the mayor hates using voice mail, and maybe the mayor inexplicably a.s.sumes this reporter is actually a bleeding-heart socialist, so he hangs up without leaving a message. Two hours later, our metro reporter still doesn't have his obligatory "no comment," so the newspaper's metro editor tells him that the story needs to be held for at least one day so that they can get a response from the mayor. But twenty-four hours later, a hospital catches on fire, and that fire becomes the day's major news event. Meanwhile, the story about the mayor is suddenly old news, and-because of the fire-it's no longer on the front page; now it's buried on page B3. Most readers won't even notice it. But a handful of people who hate the mayor the mayor won't comment upon. Maybe our steadfast reporter waits and waits and waits, and at 7:20 he decides to get a Dr Pepper. This requires him to walk across the newsroom to wherever they keep the vending machines, and-while he pops his quarters into the pop machine-his phone rings. It's the mayor. But maybe the mayor hates using voice mail, and maybe the mayor inexplicably a.s.sumes this reporter is actually a bleeding-heart socialist, so he hangs up without leaving a message. Two hours later, our metro reporter still doesn't have his obligatory "no comment," so the newspaper's metro editor tells him that the story needs to be held for at least one day so that they can get a response from the mayor. But twenty-four hours later, a hospital catches on fire, and that fire becomes the day's major news event. Meanwhile, the story about the mayor is suddenly old news, and-because of the fire-it's no longer on the front page; now it's buried on page B3. Most readers won't even notice it. But a handful of people who hate the mayor will will notice it, and they'll a.s.sume the newspaper buried this story on purpose, either because (a) the reader is liberal, so he or she thinks the paper's aging Caucasian owner is in cahoots with the mayor, or because (b) the reader is conservative, so he or she thinks the liberal media is trying to raise taxes and mandate abortions and keep the tax-happy, baby-killing mayor in power. And all of this has nothing to do with politics, and it has nothing to do with agendas. It has to do with some guy wanting Dr Pepper. And s.h.i.t like this happens notice it, and they'll a.s.sume the newspaper buried this story on purpose, either because (a) the reader is liberal, so he or she thinks the paper's aging Caucasian owner is in cahoots with the mayor, or because (b) the reader is conservative, so he or she thinks the liberal media is trying to raise taxes and mandate abortions and keep the tax-happy, baby-killing mayor in power. And all of this has nothing to do with politics, and it has nothing to do with agendas. It has to do with some guy wanting Dr Pepper. And s.h.i.t like this happens all the time. all the time.

Distrust the Proper People.

uber-idiotic people tend to think of the entire newspaper as one organism; they think that stories, columns, editorials, and advertis.e.m.e.nts are all exactly the same. Mildly intelligent people understand that there's a difference between what's on the front page and what's on the OpEd page. However, only a select few are aware that most of what's in a newspaper is either fact-plus-fiction or truth-minus-fact, which evens out to be just about the same thing.

Here's what I mean: People get nervous when they read stories in newspapers, because they always think they're being lied to or manipulated (this goes back to the aforementioned "agenda" presumption). They always think they're not getting the whole story. Actually, they're getting more than the whole story; they're getting the whole story, plus a bunch of stuff that has nothing to do with anything.

Remember our thirsty reporter who was waiting for the mayor to call him back? Well, let's say he finally leaves the office and swings by Stop-N-Go (maybe he wants another Dr Pepper). While walking toward the counter with his beverage in hand, a crazed loner walks into the store and shoots the convenience store employee in the face, killing him instantly. The reporter watches this shooting happen. The crazed loner then begins screaming like a maniac, and two cops rush in and apprehend him. Now, remember-the reporter sees all of this firsthand. And as a consequence, he calls up his editor on a cell phone and volunteers to write a story about the event. And he probably writes something like this...

RANDOM CITY, USAThe owner of a local Stop-N-Go was killed tonight in a brutal act of seemingly random violence. The alleged perpetrator was immediately taken into custody but firmly denies his involvement in the crime. "I never shot n.o.body," said the alleged gunmen, who is also wanted for murder in seventeen other states.

Actually, I'm sort of exaggerating: I'm sure a copy editor would undoubtedly feel obligated to remove the word brutal brutal. But by and large, this would be seen as a reasonable accounting of the events. This is why all reporters eventually go insane: Even if you see a guy shoot someone-in fact, even if a guy shoots you you in the face, and you watch the bullet come out of the chamber of the .38 he's holding-the event needs to be described as an "alleged" crime, and that alleged criminal needs to allege that he had no part in anything that allegedly happened. in the face, and you watch the bullet come out of the chamber of the .38 he's holding-the event needs to be described as an "alleged" crime, and that alleged criminal needs to allege that he had no part in anything that allegedly happened.

Now, I realize this is essential to journalism, and I certainly don't disagree with the principle behind that journalistic tradition. But these "essential" rules do create one rather embarra.s.sing contradiction: Most serious news stories are peppered with information that is laughably false, and reporters are always fully aware of how false that information is. Newspapers are constantly quoting people who are openly lying, and almost every sound bite you hear in the broadcast media is partially false. And there's nothing anyone can do about it. It's not that the truth is being ignored; it's just that the truth is inevitably combined with a bunch of c.r.a.p that's supposed to make news stories unbiased and credible, but really just makes them longer and less clear. The motivation for doing this is to foster objectivity, but it actually does the complete opposite. It makes finding an objective reality impossible, because you're always getting facts plus plus requisite grains of "equalizing" fiction. requisite grains of "equalizing" fiction.

In his book Explaining Hitler, Explaining Hitler, author Ron Rosenbaum applauds a group he calls the "First Explainers," a collection of 1920s journalists who worked at publications like the author Ron Rosenbaum applauds a group he calls the "First Explainers," a collection of 1920s journalists who worked at publications like the Munich Post Munich Post and risked their lives in order to ill.u.s.trate the impending danger of the coming fuhrer. He paints these guys as heroes. However, I'm not sure if modern reporters would even be allowed to perform that kind of watchdog function if a new Hitler-esque character emerged in the twenty-first century; he would probably just be referred to as a "charismatic, neoconservative upstart." and risked their lives in order to ill.u.s.trate the impending danger of the coming fuhrer. He paints these guys as heroes. However, I'm not sure if modern reporters would even be allowed to perform that kind of watchdog function if a new Hitler-esque character emerged in the twenty-first century; he would probably just be referred to as a "charismatic, neoconservative upstart."

As a result of this ham-fisted faux objectivity, skeptical news consumers often find themselves suspecting that a deeper truth can be found on the newspaper opinion pages, or through talk radio, or via egocentric iconoclasts like Bill O'Reilly or Michael Moore. The a.s.sumption is that-since these pundits openly admit their biases-you can trust their insights more. They display less guile, and you know where they're coming from. But this is not true. You may find these people interesting and you may find them entertaining, but they offer nothing for anyone who doesn't already agree with their espoused stance. George Will and Maureen Dowd are both more effective writers than I could ever hope to become, but all their political insights are unabashed propaganda, even when they happen to be right: They sometimes tell the truth, but they're always subtracting facts. That's what they get paid to do. They are paid to manipulate and simplify issues that are too complex for casual observers to understand independently. What makes them good columnists is their ability to present a version of the truth that somehow seems self-evident; they are urbane cult leaders. I will never understand people who complain that the media can't be trusted, yet still inexplicably think they can learn something of value from Molly Ivins or Cal Thomas. Most of the time, political columnists and political commentators are trying to persuade you not to think critically about anything.

Sports Reporters Hate Sports.

n.o.body realizes how much the people who write about sports despise the subject they write about. There is nothing they hate more. I know that seems paradoxical, and most of them would never admit it in public. But give them four drinks in a deserted tavern, and you will hear the truth: The people paid to inform you about the world of professional, collegiate, and high school athletics would love to see all sports-except for maybe the NCAA basketball tournament-eradicated from the planet.

What's depressing is that this was not always the case for these people. Back when today's sportswriters were still enthusiastic young fellows playing outside at recess, they loved sports. It was the only thing they loved, usually. They were the kind of kids who would watch a baseball game on TV and keep the official book, and they worshiped Brent Musburger and they memorized statistics from the World Almanac World Almanac and they cried when Dwight Clark caught a pa.s.s in the back of the end zone to beat the Dallas Cowboys in 1981. Very often, the only important connection they had with their fathers was watching and they cried when Dwight Clark caught a pa.s.s in the back of the end zone to beat the Dallas Cowboys in 1981. Very often, the only important connection they had with their fathers was watching Monday Night Football Monday Night Football. All their adolescence, these guys dreamed of a life where they could think about sports for a living. So they all went to college and got journalism degrees, and they all got jobs as sportswriters. And five years later, they all find themselves watching games from the press box and secretly wishing they were holding sniper's rifles.

If you want to become jaded and bitter in the shortest period possible, become a sportswriter. You will spend your Friday nights trying to talk to high school kids who have nothing to say, and you will have to ask them questions until they give you a quote that proves it. You will spend your Sat.u.r.day afternoons talking to college players who will earnestly discuss the importance of academics and school spirit two hours before they rape the first girl unluckiest enough to chug a GHB kamikaze. And if you become really really good at your job, you will eventually get to live in hotels for weeks at a time, alongside millionaire pro athletes who-if not for their ability to perform one socially irrelevant act-would quite possibly kill you and steal your car. And you will still remember statistics from the good at your job, you will eventually get to live in hotels for weeks at a time, alongside millionaire pro athletes who-if not for their ability to perform one socially irrelevant act-would quite possibly kill you and steal your car. And you will still remember statistics from the World Almanac, World Almanac, but now those memories will make you mad. but now those memories will make you mad.

However, athletes aren't the worst part about being a sportswriter; after a few months, the players merely become literary devices. The worst part about being a sportswriter is that no one will ever have a normal conversation with you for the rest of your life. Everyone you meet will either (a) want to talk about sports, or (b) a.s.sume you you want to talk about sports. Strangers will feel qualified to walk up to you in a cafe and complain about Rasheed Wallace; upon your introduction, your girlfriend's father will immediately ask you oddly specific questions about the New York Rangers. You may have insightful thoughts on the Middle East, but no one will care; they will be interested in your thoughts on middle relieving. want to talk about sports. Strangers will feel qualified to walk up to you in a cafe and complain about Rasheed Wallace; upon your introduction, your girlfriend's father will immediately ask you oddly specific questions about the New York Rangers. You may have insightful thoughts on the Middle East, but no one will care; they will be interested in your thoughts on middle relieving.

Over time, you will see your life disappear into sweat and contract negotiations and descriptions of the wishbone o