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Screen Shot 2014-01-01 at 12.11.42 AMWay back on the final day of 1992, I was standing in a Times Square restaurant. Wait—to be more precise, I was standing in a Times Square restaurant’s bathroom. I was leaning over a urinal, peeing away—my friend in one hand, my notepad in another. I was working on a story for the ol’ college paper about the big New York City celebration, happily urinating away when …

Oops.

The notepad—filled with etchings, brand new—fell into the urinal, which was overflowing with the yellow liquid of 1,000 souls. Suddenly, I was faced with the greatest decision of my young journalistic career: Stick my hand in the urinal and pluck out my piss-drenched notebook, or walk away and cut my losses.

I debated.

I debated some more.

I debated some more.

I closed my eyes, reached down my hand and grabbed the pad—piss dripping from its corners. I turned both ways, made certain no one was looking, dried the thing off and exited.

Good times.

2 Comments
  • Dave

    That’s the only acceptable conclusion to this story. We all suffer for our art. Some more so than others…

    January 1, 2014at3:13 pm Reply
  • Mike

    This is my new definition of yellow journalism….

    January 2, 2014at9:58 am Reply
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