Graydon Carter, Pulp, and Delusion

I woke up this morning to the sun slicing through the plantation shutters. I could feel its warmth on my eyelids. I’ve gotten out of the business of debating with the Almighty, but is it too much to ask that our eyelids act like blackout curtains? Where in the design process did it make sense to make our eyelids thinner than Saran Wrap? I wonder about these things.

I proceeded to enjoy two cups of coffee, a bowl of Grape-Nuts, and a tall glass of pulp-free orange juice. It blows my mind that pulp is still an option. The fact that there are people who prefer waxy flakes in their orange juice is beyond all comprehension. Even more unfathomable are fans of high pulp. I wonder about these people.

As I looked in the mirror before leaving, I realized I need a haircut, but I sort of always need one. I get three, maybe four, a year, so my locks are usually in a state of unwieldy disrepair, but rarely beyond presentable with a few shakes of Vitalis. On account of cooler weather, I put the windows down en route to my lunch meeting, where I arrived looking like Graydon Carter—rosy cheeks, windswept, aloof. I’ll wait another few weeks before I visit my barber. After all, Graydon looks better the longer his hair gets. I assume I will too.

Looking dashing aside, I had one of those days today. I wasn’t feeling it. Not defeated, just … bored. You see, I have this character defect that rears its ugly head more often than not; it’s the totally unreasonable expectation that today is The Day! For what, I have no idea. I don’t gamble (with money), so I’m not anticipating winning a scratch-off. But I gamble career-wise.

I guess I was hoping that today was the day when the stars aligned, that investors would wire huge sums of money, that I’d be shopping for an apartment to rent on the Upper East Side, and that, in due time, I could hire a butler who makes me fresh-squeezed orange juice every morning (sans pulp). The rabbit hole stretches from one end of the Earth’s crust to the other. And if I’m not careful, I’ll go so deep into it that I’ll pop out on the other side, drifting into outer space, blissfully lost in my mind as I float by Venus with thoughts like, “Would I rather drink my morning glass of pulp-free orange juice in an Eames chair or a Barcelona?” It’s the only way I know how not to lose my mind.

First and foremost, I believe in hard work and taking risks. Not calculated risks, but gnarly risks with one-in-a-million odds. Risks wrapped in barbed wire and surrounded by landmines—they excite me the most. Of course, with my brain, I don’t see odds like a normal person. I have an eraser in my mind, like the pink one on top of a number two pencil … and that little piece of rubber erases zeros, so 1 in 1,000,000 starts looking like 1 in 1,000. And with my insane level of confidence, those are fabulous odds. Give it a day, and 1 in 1,000 starts looking like 1 in 10. And who wouldn’t roll the dice with a 10% chance of winning? Crazy—I know, but it’s how my brain sees risk.

So, if you add the last paragraph with the one before it, you get “delusional.” In order to keep my sanity, I need to take regular trips to la-la land, and, if that wasn’t crazy enough, I have a totally unrealistic means of calculating risk. This combination is what normal people refer to as delusional. I get it. I accept it. But let’s not forget to see the other side of the coin: people who prefer pulp in their orange juice are just as delusional as I am. I’d argue more.