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Tank top, $530, Gucci / Pants, $1,150, Gucci / Sneakers, $1,200, Buscemi / Jacket (in hand), Ovadia & Sons / Hat, Moncler Grenoble / Necklace, Degs & Sal / Bracelets (bottom two), Del Toro (red), David Yurman He isn’t going to stop being great at football—15-1 last season, near unanimous MVP, a scorched-earth run to the Super Bowl—and he isn’t going to stop reveling in his own greatness at football. Cam Newton carries an i Pad with him in a case displaying the logo of Super Bowl 50—the game his Panthers lost in excruciating fashion, after which he went home and cried and cried and cried, until 4 a.m. He keeps a to-do list tucked into the i Pad case, like he’s about to go run errands with the other suburban wives having lunch at this restaurant in Buckhead, the Atlanta neighborhood 25 miles from where he grew up and where he now owns an off-season home, and in time he shows me what’s on it. You could imagine desperate, nomadic civilizations finally coming to rest and building settlements around them. It’s just him; there’s never really been anyone like him. He is matter-of-fact about being this kind of public figure. I can’t just sit up here and say, ‘Okay, Later, we walk into a cigar store around the corner from the restaurant.
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He isn’t going to stop celebrating after touchdowns and wins, or walking off podiums in angry silence after his team loses. A white piece of paper covered in neat, tiny handwriting, Cam reading aloud from it. Otherwise he’s so perfectly proportional you wouldn’t notice the way he’s built, which is: densely. If someone stumbled out of the Alaskan wilderness tomorrow, wondering why we’re all so obsessed with this dumb, complicated game, you’d show them tape of Cam—against the Giants last year, maybe, the game where the Panthers led 35–7 in the third quarter, gave up the entire lead by the end of the fourth, only for Cam to rise up from the turf, unkillable like Michael Myers, and calmly drive his team to victory. Because it’s true, he looks fucking invincible out there. He started smoking cigars two years ago, he says; after the Super Bowl loss he started drinking white wine, too, mostly Chardonnays. “We all have life lessons that we most dearly learn from. All these so-called experts calling him, in effect, lazy.
They’re like weird stone formations you might encounter out in a desert. Seventeen wins in 19 games last season and he could care less. He orders a green tea and a Shirley Temple, extra syrup. If you control your choice of words, you can, you know, kind of go down from there.” He’s obsessed with testing himself. Dear my Father Lord, I thank you for waking us up this morning, starting us on our way, putting food on our table, clothes on our body, shoes on our feet. Let it be the nourishment of our body in Christ’s name. The waiters can’t get enough of him; they explain the menu so many times I think I might dream about it.
Then they treat their despair with marijuana and alcohol and heroin and ecstasy and “Molly” and whatever mood-altering or pain-killing prescription drugs they can pilfer from their parents’ medicine cabinet. Watching an episode of the Kardashians isn't much different from getting high, since it wrenches the minds of young people into believing that what they are seeing and feeling is real, and that hyper-emotional, ego-driven, attention-deficit-disordered storylines are what life should be made of.
But the roots of the Kardashians’ apparent desire to escape the reality of their own existences, no matter how many people may be made sick by it, will be more exposed if it is true that Kris Jenner helped leak her daughter's sex tape.
I have neither interviewed nor treated any of the Kardashians, but I know that a mother who helps distribute a videotape of her daughter having sex is a mother who feels no particular reservation reticence about anyone and everyone being involved in her daughter's erotic life.
And that mother, I would theorize, is someone whose appreciation of proper boundaries may have been eroded by her own experiences, whether early or somewhat later in life.
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