It looks like the city has a new team to root for. And no, it’s not the Brooklyn Nets.
Last weekend on Randall’s Island, the New York Empire wrapped up a three-game sweep of the Philadelphia Phoenix in a heated ultimate frisbee match. But this wasn’t any sort of do-it-yourself pick-up game. The stakes were higher than that.
The Empire is one of the newest additions to the nascent American Ultimate Disc League (so named to avoid copyright infringement on the word “Frisbee,” a registered trademark of the Wham-O toy company), and the team was defending its No. 2 spot in the Eastern division.
You can be aristrocratic about it, and tell your young scion to be a golf pro or something, and nod distractedly when he tells you he’d rather pursue the intellectual rewards of work in private equity. Sure, you welcome him back into the family firm at some point, and you hope he does well. But you don’t announce to the financial world that he’s next in line to run your centuries old empire until you’ve gotten some positive feedback, and at least until he’s reached the ripened old age of 32. Which is basically the only thing to do if your son is Mayer Amschel Rothschild’s great-great-great-great grandson:
The first time I met James Deen was in a co-ed bathroom. I couldn’t tell you where. He was in the middle of a foursome, having sex with a sweat-soaked blonde propped up against a porcelain sink who looked like she’d just swallowed all the MDMA in L.A. A friend told me one way to spot fake college porn is by the extras the producers hire to stand around and pretend to be students. Sure enough, a group of guys who might have trouble spelling the word “campus” were watching, slack-jawed, from the doorway. I was watching too, except from my MacBook in Brooklyn.