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Oliver Broudy is a full-time freelance writer and the ex-managing editor of the Paris Review. His work has appeared in New York magazine, the New York Times, Mother Jones, and a variety of other publications.
Last week at a Manhattan auction house, five of Mahatma Gandhi’s personal items were on the block when second thoughts crept in. From the back offices, observing an auction in suspense.
At the New York State Psychiatric Institute, a darkened room of psychologists gaze upon Matt Damon—trying to decide when a bust is really a penis. Watching the analysis unfold.
Find a new band, listen to the single, expand to a few more songs, then a whole album, then all the albums, and finally, months later, you’ve exhausted their entire catalog—and listened to nothing else in between. Now: Repeat.
Thousands of med students lose their lunch each year over whether they’ll be matched up with the residency of their dreams—or end up washing dishes for minimal wage. This year’s class at NYU was no different.
Watching Hunter Thompson watch himself on Charlie Rose, when neither Thompson is comprehensible, can be difficult to follow. Paris Review senior editor Oliver Broudy offers a memorial, remembering a party when Thompson held court.