I know everyone and their mother has asked everyone else and their father to read Esquire's phenomenal profile of Roger Ebert. I'd like to add myself to the chorus. Seriously, go read it. If it were a piece of fiction, it would win an O. Henry award. As it is, it's not. The part where Ebert, who can no longer talk, "screams" in anger over the pettiness of the Disney attorneys is heartbreaking.
And while you're at it, go check out his blog. The man writes like Da Vinci paints: precise, bold, and with enough meaning and layers to overwhelm all but the most able of readers. I've highlighted his writing before, but it bears mentioning: the man is a giant of the written word, and all we can do is bask in the stream before it runs out.
As a bonus, Will Leitch wrote a tremendous paean to the man in Deadspin today. Terrific stuff, especially the part about the sex on the desk (not between them, mind you). I wish we all had quasi-mentors like this.
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