Journalism, as I’ve stated in the past, is the art of wounding. It’s an offensive thing, a direct and hostile thing in many ways. You are telling a person living in the present world that they do not know what is going on around them and furthermore, must. This is often most important in cases where the person does not want to even hear about what’s going on around them. This is the craft.
I’ve recently applied for a job at the Village Voice. I want it, badly. I will live out of my car if necessary to work at the Voice. I want to work for a real paper, one that is concerned genuinely with the state of the country. Who knows? Maybe the guy that I applied to is reading this thing. If so: Ward, hire me! You won’t be disappointed. If not, people, hope for me. I need to get the ground of reportage under my feet, the beat of the war drums that thunders in my ears every time I smell a story. I am in a journalistic mood again, and there’s no place I’d rather work than New York.
Why? Yes, I know, everyone wants New York. But I don’t want it because it’s prestigious. I want it because it’s a pit and always will be. It’s the nature of the city, and the nature of people. When we’re compressed, we get nastier. I like places where the viciousness of mankind comes out. It’s more honest and you see things clearer. And the Village Voice is the last newspaper in the area that I have any true faith in.
I will sell your children to black market Chinese women in order to get a real job after all the shit I’ve been through these past six months.