My Humble Opinion by Jason Blare
The New York Times Problem

As I sit here in the penthouse suite of the Nepal Hilton, I piece together the events that lead up to what will surely be the end of the New York Times. With me, helping me make sense of this tragedy, is Jack Nicholson,  R. Lee Ermey, and Vito de La Para, the original drummer from Canned Heat.

"It's B.S." Nicholson shouts to the ceiling. "I for one won't line my cat box with the Times.  What a bunch of dopes." I know he's mad but, as I have learned in the past,  when Jack's upset just give him a wide berth.  His temple throbs.

Just behind him on the room's fireplace mantel is a framed photo of Tenzing Norgay hugging Sir Edmund Hillary near a snowy crevasse.  I can tell by the way they embrace that they were near the summit, just after a light lunch, when the picture was taken. Tenzing wonders what life will be like after Hillary is knighted.  He hopes that the Dalai Lama would "knight" him too by inviting him on a trip to Los Angeles to schmooz with enlightened celebrities.

I turn to Ermey, finishing off a liter bottle of Seagram's Seven with a few good slugs. "Lee," I start, realizing that he is stressed out by the altitude and lack of discipline in Katmandu, "what's your take on this?" Before he can answer there is a knock on the door. I am surprised to see Diana Ross waltz through the doorway with Bob Mackey. She is a vision in Gore-Tex and leather.

"Don't mind us," she whispers, in a voice that launched a thousand Kleenexes, "We just want to spit off the balcony."  The pool is twenty stories below and filled with Belgian nudists on holiday.  I have half a mind to watch, but Ermey clears his throat.

"Seems to me," Ermey growls, staring off for a moment, recalling a vivid flashback of combat in a rice paddy, "That the Times is cutting its own throat.  And if there's one thing I learned in the Marines - when somebody wants to cut their own throat, sit back and keep your boots out of the blood puddle."

Downstairs, in the hotel's cavernous kitchen, cooks are preparing our lunch.  One carelessly spills boiling water on the sous chef and they bicker for several minutes.  The Chicken Momo and Khasa Ko Masu are so overcooked that, when the combatants return to their labors, it had to be chopped up and added to the Mt. Everest Assorted Appetizer Platter. A pity, this, but in Nepal everything that doesn't make it to the entree table gets a "second life" as an hors d'oeuvre. 

Which is how it may wind up for the Times.  Pulled smoldering from the flash oven, scraped of its burned skin, and minced into tidbits as a tempting taster.

De La Para stirs his umbrella drink thoughtfully, remembering Bob Hite's early demise after scoring chartbuster hits with Goin' Up Country and On the Road Again.  Thinking of that mountain of a man brings a smile. He sips at the Pina Colada. 

"You never know..." he says, "You just never know what's really going on."

I agree.  No one ever knows.  And that's a good thing.

A real good thing.

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Give me a shout:  jasonblare@grossnewsnetwork.com