Less Offensive to Ears Than Leaf Blowers...

Al Sharpton
Vuvuzelas
Sean Hannity
Kars for Kids jingle
Sonic booms
Mike Mayock
Nails on chalkboard
Whining
Steve Carell
Explanations of college football playoffs
Suzyn Waldman
Subway car air brakes
Julianne Moore accents
Dentist drill
Nicolas Cage
Do-wop
Bill Maher
Bagpipes
Jay Z
Jargon users
Gilbert Gottfried
National Anthem balladeers
Stephen A. Smith
Aid raid sirens
Kenny G
Accordions
"Cotton-Eyed Joe"
Lisa Kudrow
Super Bowl half-time entertainment
Jason Segel
Sabermetrician utterances

Memories of New York Magazine (Part 1)

In the mid-1970s, I was taking classes in late afternoon and early evening at Columbia University for a graduate degree in English and working full time during the day as assistant arts editor at New York magazine. So, before I ever set foot in the front of a classroom I was sidetracked by journalism, in a job I looked forward to every single day. 

I was reminded of a conversation I had several years ago with Orlando Magic president Pat Williams, who, like me, had always held down jobs that he loved. Pat said that he used to tell his 19 children (14 by adoption), “Find something you would do for nothing, and then get paid for it.” It was advice I had passed along to my two children. As for me, as an editor, I had a job that paid me to read all day. It was the best of all possible worlds for as long as I had worked.

My responsibilities at New York were to work closely with the Lively Arts department, the magazine’s so-called “back of the book.” I would have first read, which included fact-checking and line editing, on all the reviews submitted by the magazine’s critics: Judith Crist (Film), John Simon (Theater), Alan Rich (Classical Music), Thomas B. Hess and later John Ashbery (Art), Gary Giddins (Jazz), Marcia B. Siegel (Dance), and Nik Cohn (Rock). Later on, Molly Haskell and David Denby wrote about film, Tom Bentkowski about recordings, and John Gabree about rock. 

In addition, Ruth Gilbert (Movies, Theater, and After Dark) and I (Concerts, Opera, Art Galleries—with a big assist from freelancer Holly Pinto—Dance, Museums, and Sports) compiled the weekly entertainment listings in the front of the magazine.

During my four-year term, a few of the arts beats changed. I arrived as Judith Crist, relieved of her post as film critic, was leaving. My first assignment was to edit her last column: a review of the re-release of The Hound of the Baskervilles. The following week, John Simon moved from covering theater to film. It was a dramatic shift in temperament, tone, and erudition. Crist was less a critic than a long-time reviewer for New York and TV Guide. She was, let’s say, less demanding and more accommodating in general to film—a movie fan—than the acerbic and brilliant Simon, a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature from Harvard with an uncompromising ferocity for excellence. To be fair, it was John who reminded everyone that Judy pointed out in her review of the film that Krakatoa was west, not east, of Java.

One week after the transition, readers loyal to Crist wrote impassioned letters to editor-in-chief Clay Felker protesting her departure. Simon took great joy in reading aloud some of the more vitriolic objections that arrived in the mail. I remember one missive very clearly, thanks to the exuberant theatrical relish with which Simon read it: “Going from Judith Crist to John Simon is like going from Pollyanna to Martin Bormann.”

Later that year, in his review of Howard Zieff’s film Hearts of the West, Simon wrote, “And then, as Tater, there is Jeff Bridges, clearly the most—or should I say only?—gifted member of the acting Bridges clan, and getting better all the time.” Shortly after that appeared in print the magazine received a handwritten letter from Mrs. Lloyd Bridges in which she defended her husband and her older son, Beau, and disputed John’s assessment of their thespian efforts.

Alan Rich, the arts editor and music critic, presided over the beats coverage. Alan’s desk was alongside mine. Copy editor Deborah Harkins and Around Town editor Ruth Gilbert completed our foursome at the crossroads in New York’s city room layout. 

Typically, Alan would arrive sometime after 10 A.M., look over the day’s mail, catch up on whatever was happening in the office, and then sit down to type that week’s music review. His method was unlike any other writer’s I have ever known. Alan never wrote out anything in longhand, never worked from notes, never labored over drafts. He would insert his triple-sheet carbon set into his manual typewriter and the inspiration went directly from his brain to his fingers with barely a pause. 

Alan would pass his 750-word manuscript to me, wait patiently while I read it, and then answer whatever questions I had and discuss any corrections or changes that needed to be made in the copy. Having saved the program from the concert, recital, or opera he was reviewing, Alan would hand it over to me so that I could fact-check his review and verify the spelling of the performers’ names, their history, and any other relevant information about the performance.

As music critic, Alan received complimentary tickets to virtually every concert and recital in town. He kept the tickets in a small metal box on his desk, and made available to the staff whatever tickets he did not intend to use. I took advantage of that to attend the Mostly Mozart Festival, Metropolitan, New York City, and Light Opera productions, American Ballet Theater, and other musical events in and around the city.

Alan passed away in 2010 at age 85. The release each summer of the Mostly Mozart Festival schedule in Lincoln Center always reminds me of my friend and former boss. Mozart, you see, was Alan’s favorite composer, and it was Alan who instilled in me an appreciation for Mozart’s music. Every January, for many years, Alan would write his annual Mozart birthday article in New York. I miss that feature.

I also fondly recall New York executive editor Shelley Zelaznick from my own too-brief tenure. It was New York’s loss when Shelley resigned in 1977 after the magazine’s visionary founder and editor Clay Felker lost the property in a hostile takeover by Rupert Murdoch. Shelley was smart, tough, and gentlemanly. I admired him very much. Even on the hottest days he always seemed cool and regal. During intermission at the Ziegfeld Theater of the first pre-release screening of Stanley Kubrick’s film Barry Lyndon in December 1975, my then-girlfriend and now-wife and I ran into Shelley and his wife in the lobby. “The temptation to leave is almost irresistible,” Shelley said of the ponderously dull film.

Alan had great respect for Shelley, whose company he enjoyed dating back to their days together as comrades at the Herald Tribune, from whose Sunday magazine New York had sprung. There was a time in the late 1970s when Alan briefly added theater critic to his duties (and Simon switched over to film). In reviewing a play (I can't remember the title), Alan referred to the actress in the leading role as “a female Angela Lansbury.” It was a self-consciously silly throwaway line that I, with first read on the review, would dutifully but regretfully have to throw away.

          

“Alan, you can't write that,” I told him.

         

Alan had an impish grin. “Show it to Shelley. See what he says,” Alan said. He was reluctant to give up quietly a line that he enjoyed so much.

So I walked up to the front of the office and gave the copy to Shelley, who dropped what he was doing and read it immediately. Minutes later he came back to discuss it with Alan, trying to suppress a smile. The scene played like a headmaster admonishing with a firm but proud hand a brilliantly mischievous student.  

The reading had the desired effect. Alan knew the phrase had no chance of making it into print, but he wanted to show Shelley what an amusing line it was and to make him laugh. And then it was O.K. to delete the sentence.

            

To be continued

Assembly Line

One of the many small pleasures I enjoy as a substitute teacher in elementary school is the opportunity to attend with the children the holiday and spring concerts as well as the various assemblies orchestrated by the PTA throughout the year. The organization’s members do a marvelous job of searching out and inviting provocative and entertaining guests who supplement and sometimes reinforce the educational curriculum with relevant instructional lessons of their own.

I have seen the Story Pirates, a small theater troupe based in New York City whose brilliant conception is to dramatize (with minimum scenery, costumes, and props) the children’s brief fictional tales. The look of wonderment on the faces of the children when their efforts are recognized and staged is priceless. What a smart way to encourage young writers!

Likewise I was happy to be there the day “The Brain Show” came to school. That was a lively game-show type of entertainment with participatory rounds by energetic students and teachers.

The “Penguin Assembly,” which featured an appearance by a real, live penguin, was another memorable highlight of the year for all.

Late last spring there was an assembly hosted by Professor Science, an extravagantly over-the-top mad scientist in a lab coat, who brought science lessons spectacularly to life. His requests for volunteers to aid him in his experiments were fulfilled enthusiastically by students if not by teachers.

For his final act, an experiment in force, the professor advised the audience that the experiment could be demonstrated only with the collaboration of a man wearing a tie. I shot a quick glance at sixth-grade teacher Eric Pilaar, the only other adult male spectator in the room. To my chagrin I noticed that he was wearing an open-necked golf shirt. “Thanks for wearing a tie today,” Eric said rather too agreeably.  

As I made my way fearfully to the stage the children cheered, I thought, a mite lustily. What kind of degradation exactly were they expecting? Once I joined Professor Science on the stage, he asked me a few preliminary questions.

What was my favorite sport?

Basketball, I told him.

During my playing days, he wondered, had I ever found myself directly in the path of a speeding, oversized opponent on his way to the basket?

Yes.

Was I run over, trampled, and left for dead on the court?

In a manner of speaking, yes.

            
This will be much worse, Professor Science said.

The bloodthirsty groundlings roared. The school had turned into the Roman Coliseum.  I was alone in the center of the arena and the lion cage was about to be opened.

And as Professor Science had me put on safety goggles, a helmet, and chest protector, I thought, O.K., this is over embellishing just for dramatic effect, but I’ll play along. The professor laced on a pair of roller skates and then advanced on me with what he called “a decommissioned fire extinguisher.” That meant that the carbon dioxide had been replaced by compressed air. 

The next thing I knew, the nozzle that pointed at me released a powerful jet of air that drove me backward forcefully while the professor glided smoothly away in the opposite direction. There was no blood spilled, but the bloodlust of the audience had been appeased.

“We don’t pay you enough,” said the school principal as I wobbled off the stage and exchanged high fives with audience members. 

Not the NBA

“Are you in the NBA?” asked wide-eyed third grader Tim. I had just put my official National Basketball Association satchel down on the desk at the start of the morning’s class.

Not anymore, I said, as straight-faced as I could manage.

“Wow! What team were you on? Can you dunk? Do you know LeBron? Are you friends with Kobe?” These were some of the questions excitedly fired at me by Tim and his classmates.

As a member of the working press for over three decades, including many years as editor of several basketball magazines, I would receive a brand-new carryall, courtesy of the league’s publicity department, at the start of each NBA season. The league logo is prominently stitched on the outside; inside were media guides for the league as well as for all of its member franchises. I used to take the bag to work every day, using it to hold my house and car keys, newspaper and books, sunglasses, notebook, pen, and other items. As a substitute teacher, I continue to use the bag.

Tim, an ardent sports fan, had spotted the logo. Now, he and his classmates were excited at the thought of being in the presence of a professional athlete. After all, how many substitute teachers moonlight as NBA players! (The answer is none.) A footnote here: I am five feet ten inches tall and so far removed from my basketball-playing prime (as modest as it was) that I am eligible for social security.

What I love most about working with the children is their innocence: their wonder at and belief in the blissful serendipity that could affect their everyday routine at any given moment. On this day, they did not see an unathletic-looking, average-size, senior male citizen taking the place of their regular teacher. Instead, they willingly suspended their disbelief that an NBA player would spend his day teaching in elementary school before jetting off at night to compete against LeBron James, Kobe Bryant, Tim Duncan, and other superstars.

Before I knew it, a queue had formed, single file, in front of my desk. All of the children were lined up, Post-it and pen in hand, politely waiting their turn for my autograph.

What have I done, I thought, envisioning a summons to the principal’s office—and perhaps my first detention in more than 40 years—for discipline once my scam went public, as surely it would. At the same time, I could not help feeling perversely curious over what I imagined would be a topic in the children’s homes that night. “Guess what, mom and dad? Today we had an NBA player as a sub!”

As the children approached me for my autograph, I realized I had carried the joke too far to back down now. So, pen in hand, I cheerfully signed all of the proferred Post-its.

“I better not see these on eBay later today,” I kiddingly told the class. “This signature could be worth a lot of money someday.”

When a few of the children got back in line, I announced, “That’s it. No more autographs!” Wait, did I really just say that? I thought, cognizant of the surrealism of the statement.

Jenny didn’t move, so I reminded her that I had already given her my autograph and that she needed to return to her seat.

“No, this one is not for me,” she explained. “It’s for my dad.”

And while I tried to process that, she added, “His name is Mike. Could you sign it for him?”

I obliged. “Dear Mike,” I wrote. “Best regards, Mr. K.”

Focus on Kindergarten

Just when I thought I had worked my last day of the school year, I got a message from one of the kindergarten teachers at the West Ridge Elementary School, asking if I could fill in for her on the penultimate morning of the spring term. She was taking a half day to attend her younger son’s “moving up” ceremony, from one level of pre-school to the next. It was a welcome assignment for me. I was familiar with all of the children, having taught them on several occasions earlier in the year. Each one is memorable in individual ways.

Meghan is eager to help, seeing herself more as a teacher’s aide than a student. She would prefer to follow me around the classroom and offer unsolicited help on all matters related to kindergarten. She informed me that she would be going to the Park Ridge town pool directly from school that day, and volunteered to demonstrate her cannonball technique by leaping off her chair. I declined the offer.

Classmate Jayden, who reminds me of Charlie Brown’s curly-haired younger sister, Sally, overheard this conversation. She would be joining Meghan at the pool, she said, and was particularly excited to try out her new watermelon bathing suit.

Lauren likes to remind me that I know her older brother, Ryan. Conor is the class comedian; Jake and Breyden are his best audience. Tanvee is very serious; Kathryn, McKenna, Joseph, Lia, Ved, and Ella less so but studiously quiet and unfailingly diligent. Jason has two older brothers and remains above whatever fray happens to break out. Anjali is ever happy and always with her hair and dress immaculate.

And then there is little Madeline, a freckled-face, red-headed innocent. On this day she greeted me with a wide smile, revealing new gaps in her mouth that must have taxed the tooth fairy’s June budget. 

Maddie seems to enjoy all things about kindergarten. There are the morning meetings, which comprise a recitation of the days of the week and of the ever-growing list of acquired sight words, the recognition of the calendar month’s pattern, and a choral performance of seasonal songs. There is also the weather report, with a different kindergartner serving as daily meteorologist. The forecast involves a quick peek out the window to see if it is sunny, cloudy, rainy, or snowy. Movement of tree limbs and/or leaves indicates a windy day.

I cherish the autographed drawing Maddie gave me during a previous assignment in her class. She has yet to master all of her lower-case letters, notably “b” and “d.” The signature on her abstract artwork read “Mabeline.”

In the course of the morning, as I was reading aloud a story to the class, Maddie interrupted me. “I called Joseph “daddy” once by accident,” she cheerfully said. That type of non sequitur, I’ve discovered, is not uncommon in kindergarten. Drew chimed in: “Once I called [kindergarten teacher] Mrs. Tobin ‘mommy’ by accident.”

The invocation of “daddy” reminded Maddie of another personal memory. “My daddy loves sunflower seeds,” she told me. “One time, on our way to vacation, he stopped to buy himself a whole pack.” 

I tried to press on with the story to the class, but Maddie was not done. “My papa catched a squid at my vacation house,” she said.

How did the squid get in your house? I asked, getting caught up in the silliness. 

She clarified. “He catched it when he went fishing.”

Emily’s hand went up.

O.K., that’s it, I said. No more questions until we finish reading the story.

“It’s not a question,” she said.

I knew I’d regret it, but I allowed her to continue.

“I had a great time at Hershey Park,” she said.

We did eventually come to the end of the read-along, but not before one final interruption.

“It hurts when I do this,” said Drew, awkwardly tilting her head left and right.

Don’t do that, I said, channeling Henny Youngman.