Dating black lemon
We’ve been here awhile, eating lunch, and we’re having a good time, so likable is Don Lemon, so open is he to my questions, so warm is his smile. We are at the restaurant at the Museum of Modern Art, and the portions are modern-art-sized, and he just had his photo shoot yesterday—he’d suspended all manner of salt and other bloateries in the days leading up to it and would love to cut loose a little.
But he still needs persuading, since it is a known thing that dessert is one of the principal sacrifices of people who regularly appear on TV.
M., and they have already eclipsed those of Piers Morgan, who was on at 9 P. He was anchoring the weekend desk, and he played a clip of that bastion of modernity and multicultural wisdom, Bill O’Reilly, explaining everything that’s wrong in the black community.
That he can say it, recover from it, and move on without needing to know what I think of it—this is sort of everything you need to know about Don Lemon: Don Lemon is human, and Don Lemon is not perfect, and Don Lemon is so much more fine with his humanity and his imperfection than anyone I’ve ever met. He shows me the tracker’s attendant i Phone app, and his sleep patterns are impressive in a bad way: three hours sixteen minutes here, four hours there, two hours just a couple of nights ago.
And that’s total sleep, not what the device calls "restful" sleep.
"I’m speaking to the people from where I came from," he explains to me. Lemon immediately began crushing poor Lawrence O’Donnell on MSNBC (still does) and even regularly held his own against Sean Hannity (ditto). CNN had installed its CNN-iest talent to anchor an hour of television that came to embody all the things that people loathe about CNN—the empty news-like product: questions, but no answers. CNN’s Malaysian-flight coverage became a punch line of flood-the-zone cable-news excess, and Don Lemon was the face of it.
Don Lemon knew he was gay for as long as he could remember.