The pavilion was a flatland of several hundred young men, most of them wearing Class B uniforms—troop-issued t-shirts and green cargo shorts—stained from days of marching. The boys were exhausted. They wanted a patch of shade, a Coke, an unopened can of peaches. Mostly they wanted to find a good deal in the makeshift souk. Do you have the complete Marvel set? Any ghost patches? You got any ninjas?
From “Scout’s Honor,” my long-ass article in the Summer issue of the Oxford American, where I spend several days at the 18th national Scout jamboree. Readers who reach the end will know the meaning of Silver Surfer.Jun 11, 2014
Jun 10, 2014
"I love to drive," Stan Wawrinka said, gunning his borrowed Audi through a yellow light in downtown Miami. As of April, the 29-year-old is the third-best men’s tennis player on Earth, even if he hasn’t yet learned to act like it. Wawrinka doesn’t travel with much of an entourage – there’s no nutritionist on call, no hired hands to carry his luggage. He is Swiss; gracious, humble, and unassuming; the sort of guy who posts on Instagram, "A person who’s nice to you but not nice to the waiter is not a nice person."
Watching The Empire Strikes Back as a child does not prepare you for the first time you field-dress an animal in the snow. Yes, the organs balloon out as if they’re instantly inflating, like when Han Solo cuts open the Tauntaun. But then comes a lot of work. Ten minutes into gutting, I’m “ringing the ass,” running a four-inch German hunting knife around a pelvic canal while Uncle Cy, an experienced hunter, hisses useful advice in my ear, like “Don’t ruin my fucking knife.” And “You just ruined my fucking knife.”
New article for GQ involving uncles, guns, and me in a canoe when it’s 16 degrees outside.
Magazine writers don’t really get to write their own headlines, blurb text, or captions, so for anyone emailing to say it’s impossible to “learn how to hunt deer in seven days or less,” believe me, I agree.Mar 5, 2014