From our archives →
An old classic from a completely different era, March 24, 2003:
I pressed on, making my way to the next obstacle: Conde Nast security. I easily talked them into giving me a “guest pass,” by ingeniously having them call someone I knew “on the inside,” having pre-arranged for the insider to demonstrate a flicker of recognition when my name was mentioned. I eluded their suspicions even further by loudly complaining that “that pathetic Remnick” wouldn’t stop calling and begging me to write for his silly little publication. I don’t know if anyone by the name of Remnick works for Conde Nast, but my little ruse seems to have worked, thereby demonstrating the first rule of journalism: when in doubt, make shit up.
I was handed a guest pass in universally tasteful shades of black and gray with a little circular white sticker affixed to the lower half. The floor number was clearly marked on the circle, but I can’t reveal which one, as I have agreed to protect my source. (Twenty four hours later, I will realize that the little white circle has developed a bright pink grid of some sort. One of those newfangled timed-release stickers. How cunning! But also flawed; I take some small comfort in knowing that had I not come out alive, The Authorities would have been able to pinpoint the exact time of my death by the pinkness of my sticker.)
