I know Shannon Greer since he was 16.
A West Village teenager with a good jump shot.
He was a clean version of Jim Carroll, the junkie author of BASKETBALL DIARIES.
I let him into the Milk Bar. Scottie Taylor, my boss, asked if he was under age.
“Not as far as I know.”
His basketball career went nowhere after high school. Shannon went into modeling. He was tall, good-looking, and his smile said, “Buy this.”
They loved him in Paris.
Shannon’s modeling career sputtered to an early demise. His hairline receded faster than the Arctic icecap in the time of Global Warming. He came back from Europe and started working as a photo assistant for some high-profile photographer. He played basketball after work. His skill levels were well beyond mine and he beat me one one one like a rented mule.
But I think now’s my time.
He caught his finger in a compromising position and his index finger looks like a 1st-grade knitting project. In two weeks I’ll be back in New York.
Shannon.
I’m gunning for you.
In the words of our President.
“Bring it on.”
This 56 yo man is ready.
Maybe.
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