The other day, I was sitting around listening to Toby Keith's new single, "My Dog, My Truck and My Hat All Wanna Bomb Some A-rabs," pondering how difficult, how draining, life as an editor can be. It was yet another crotch-kicking moment in another ball-busting deadline here at this kick in the shorts we call the Weekly. My nerves? Frazzled. Brain? Deep-fried and ready for the bun. Attitude? I could've earned tenure at the Genghis Khan Charm School. To paraphrase the president when he heard about the Iraqi prison scandal: I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.
About then, my computer beeped with e-mail from frequent contributor Julie Seabaugh. "Need to take a short nap before I literally die. And then I shall finish the story." Now, if you know writers, you know they're always threatening to die just before deadline. I think it's a form of therapy for them. They're convincing themselves they've gone the extra mile for you, for which they will then claim expenses.
In Julie's case, though, I doubt there was a speck of unearned melodrama. She'd just spent a long, bleary weekend as our correspondent at Modern Drunkard magazine's Lost Weekend convention at the Stardust. It apparently involved a lot of drinking, sleeplessness, more drinking and hungover note-taking—all in the name of journalism. "I slept nine hours over the course of three nights," she says. That's why she felt like dying. Which I sympathize with, honestly, but I was more concerned about the second half of her note, the part about finishing the story.
Keep in mind that the Lost Weekend was last weekend—literally just a few days ago. In true gonzo fashion, Miz Seabaugh, a New Yorker, departed Vegas on Monday and had a Tuesday deadline. A&E Editor Martin Stein caught up with her shortly before she left and reports that she was "dazed and dehydrated, insisting she only be given water and that pizza be avoided at all costs." No wonder; the weekend sounds like an epic debauch: "Some of these guys didn't sleep the entire time," Julie says. "Or change their clothes or eat anything. The Modern Drunkard staff and their followers are the most dedicated inebriates out there.
"The hardest part of this story," she continues, "was drawing a line somewhere between remaining an objective, impartial observer and pulling the biggest Hunter S. Thompson of the year. But by the first afternoon, that line was as blurry as my notebook scrawlings." She also mentioned something about the Stardust hotel jail, which I'd rather not know about.
If there's one thing guaranteed to make an editor feel better, it's knowing that his writers are suffering. So thanks, Julie, for improving my outlook. Now take a nap.
She almost made deadline, too—got the story in Wednesday morning. Close enough, I suppose; at least she didn't die. We think you'll agree the story was worth the risk.