One of the pleasures
of working at New York magazine in
the 1970s (and there were many) was the annual Christmas party, held in the
editorial offices on the third floor at 755 Second Avenue. That was a
comfortable setup for the edit and art departments. New York published weekly, except for a double issue the last two
weeks in December. That week without a press deadline was liberating, and the
staff reveled in the temporary stress-free period. We could work ahead to
prepare for the new year, and then willingly stay late to enjoy the party in New York's city room layout.
In
the festive spirit of the season, we even tolerated the presence in our midst of
the Mad Men and Mad Women of the advertising sales offices from the second
floor. You see, a few of them would have sold out the editorial in a New York
minute for a sales commission. I remember one rep who brashly and unashamedly
offered to write capsule restaurant reviews (for publication!) for potential
clients she was soliciting. She saw no conflict of interest there, only a
fatter paycheck for herself.
It was not uncommon
for Mayor Ed Koch and Representative Bella Abzug to join us. One year, Paul
Newman showed up. To this day I cannot hear a Johnny Mathis Christmas song
without thinking of my former colleague Merry Clark, who at the party one year ruefully told me
about the moment she realized that Johnny was not singing to her. When I
reminded her of that not too long ago, she said, “He’s still not singing to
me!”
In 1976, New York
published “Tribal Rites of the New Saturday Night,” by Nik Cohn. In December
1977, the film Saturday Night Fever,
based on Cohn’s story, opened. That same month, at our office Christmas party,
the art department was turned into a disco, complete with strobe light and
dry-ice-making fog. Taking a turn on the dance floor with the lively artists of
editorial was an even livelier pair of roller-skating monkeys. I never learned
who invited them.
In the course of
one of those late-night Christmas parties in the office, one booze-fueled
contributing writer had a memorable close-up encounter with the magazine’s copy
machine. I wasn’t an eyewitness but I did see the evidence in the form of a
stack of black-and-white reproductions that Around Town listings editor Ruth
Gilbert kept in the bottom drawer of her desk. As it turned out, it wasn't all
that memorable for the contributing writer, who had a hazy recollection of the
party. Days later, his anxiety was not assuaged by reassurances from Ruth and
Merry that nothing had happened. The incident would later be rewritten by New York contributing editor Tom Wolfe
in his novel The Bonfire of the Vanities.
After I left New York in 1979 for Condé Nast Publications, the venue and the atmosphere for the party
changed. Every year, about two weeks before Christmas, the chairman,
S.I. Newhouse, invited the company’s officers and the editors in chief and
publishers of each of the Condé Nast magazines to a private lunch at the Four
Seasons restaurant. A highlight was the heartfelt and gracious
speech by S.I. in which he expressed his gratitude for the efforts of all those
assembled. One year, CNP president Steve Florio passed along some
inspirational words spoken by his grandmother, he told us, before she passed. “Tropo duro,” he said she whispered to
him on her deathbed. “Stay tough.”
I loved working at Condé Nast. I was given a raise
every single year for over 20 years. Not once had I ever asked for one. How it
happened was, my boss, executive vice president John Brunelle, would call or
drop me a note during Christmas week. “Are you in the office tomorrow?” he
would ask. “Stop by and see me. I need to talk to you.” The talk would be to
inform me that I was being given a raise.
John passed away earlier this year. What a patient
and understanding boss he was, and what a forgiving and unforgettable mentor
and gentleman he was to a young editor.
In 1983, when I was in the process of selling my
first house and closing on another, I was informed that Condé Nast historically,
if not publicly, made available loans to its editors and publishers. I went to see
John. After I sat down in his office, he pressed a button under his desk to release
the door held open by a magnet. I felt like I had entered Ali Baba’s cave. I
asked him about the possibility of securing a bridge loan.
Without hesitating, he said, “Sure. How much do you
need?” When I told him $19,500, he asked if it would be convenient for me to
pick up the check the next morning. All that was required of me was my
signature acknowledging receipt of the check. There would be no interest on the
loan and no payment-due date. “Pay it back when you can,” John said. That was
typical of my relationship with him. The few times I met with John in his
office over what I perceived to be a press emergency, he listened carefully,
quickly assessed the situation, and leaned back in his chair. “It’s all going
to happen,” he said cheerfully, taking a puff on his cigar.
It’s all going to happen? I repeated
to myself. Yes, and it’s all going to be bad, I thought. But it never
was. Much later I realized what he meant by that. He had complete confidence
that I would take whatever steps necessary and spend however much time and
effort it took to avert the crisis. He was right. Years later, at a retirement
party thrown for John at Michael’s restaurant in New York City, I mentioned the
meeting and John’s calm response to my agitation to his wife and daughter. “Oh,
he was always telling us that, too,” they said.
Surprise Package
One year at Christmas, in 1992, I received a most unexpected
package: a gift-wrapped bucket of caramel popcorn along with a genial note and
a standing personal invitation to meet from the Cleveland Browns’ coach at the
time, one Bill Belichick. “Thanks for thinking of me [with a copy of Street
& Smith’s Pro Football edition],” he wrote. “Please give me a call if you
are in or around the Cleveland area; the Browns facility is but a mile from the
airport.” He enclosed his business card and closed with “If there is ever
anything I can do for you, I hope you won’t hesitate to call.” I wonder if that
invitation still stands.
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