Memories of New York Magazine (Part 2)

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. One year, the art department was turned into a disco, with music, strobe lights, and dry ice that created a fog. There was even a roller-skating monkey. I don't remember whose guest he was.

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.

What a rollicking and enervating environment and collegial atmosphere we enjoyed at New York, the prototype (and the best) of all the city magazines. My colleagues were the smartest, wittiest, most original and creative personalities I had ever met. 

So many of New York’s editors later moved on to top editorial positions at other publications: Shelley Zelaznick and Fred Allen to Forbes, Jack Nessel to Psychology Today, Ellen Stern to GQ, Peter Devine to Vanity Fair, Laurie Jones to Vogue, Dorothy Seiberling, Nancy Newhouse, Joan Kron, and Suzanne Slesin to the New York Times, David Owen to The New Yorker, Elizabeth Crowe to Parents, Corky Pollan to Gourmet, George Gendron to Boston Magazine, Quita McMath to Texas Monthly, Rhoda Koenig to Harper’s, and assistant art director Tom Bentkowski to Life.

            
A Who’s Who in Magazine Journalism

The contributing writers and illustrators included a Who’s Who in magazine journalism: Tom Wolfe, Nick Pileggi, Nora Ephron, Mimi Sheraton, Julian Allen, Gloria Steinem, Ed Sorel, Richard Reeves, Mario Puzo, Gail Sheehy, John Bryson, Robert Grossman, Steven Brill, Dan Dorfman, James McMullan, Jimmy Breslin, Pete Hamill, David Levine, Gael Greene, Anthony Haden-Guest, and others. The design director and art director were, respectively, the inimitable Milton Glaser and Walter Bernard.

The star power was not limited to the masthead. It was not uncommon for the mayor of New York, Ed Koch at the time, U.S. Representative Bella Abzug, or other local politicians to visit our office. Paul Newman stopped by our Christmas party one year. Joel Grey, a good friend of Best Bets editor Ellen Stern, occasionally popped in. 

Arnold Schwarzenegger Comes to New York

During the course of a publicity tour in April 1976, a fresh-faced body builder and would-be actor newly arrived from Austria came by to introduce himself after New York ran a story on the documentary Pumping Iron and the feature film Stay Hungry he appeared in. Arnold Schwarzenegger charmed Ruth Gilbert, an original New York staffer and the editor of the Around Town listings, and she in turn charmed him right back. After he gave her a black-and-white publicity glossy from Pumping Iron of himself, she did an impromptu photoshop (before there was Photoshop) by attaching a head shot of drama critic John Simon onto the shot of Arnold’s pumped-up physique.  
            
For New York’s fall preview issue in 1975, there was a feature on Barry Lyndon that I edited. What I remember most about the assignment was the near impossibility of verifying some of the facts in that story (including the statement that Kubrick had used 10,000 candles to illuminate one scene in the film). The reclusive and secretive Kubrick simply could not, or would not, be reached. 

“The Soon-to-Be-Ubiquitous” Meryl Streep

Exactly one year later I got my first professional byline in a short piece about the city’s professional sports teams. In the two subsequent years I wrote capsule previews of the new fall theater offerings in New York City, including my line in the 1978 edition about a promising new actress, “the soon-to-be-ubiquitous” Meryl Streep, who would be appearing in the title role in Elizabeth Swados’s production of Alice in Wonderland at the Public Theater.

The magazine closed on Thursday night, meaning the final pages were sent to the printer in Buffalo via courier. On Fridays, Ruth and I compiled the listings of the entertainment events that would take place two weeks later in New York City. There was never enough space in our pages to accommodate the many events and cultural sites in the city. The cuts usually came at the expense of the commercial art emporiums that sold artifacts of no appreciable value. 

I never admitted that to the proprietors of those establishments, who after receiving their copies of the magazine on Monday would telephone indignantly to ask why their business was omitted from our pages. It was a free listing, I explained. We couldn’t very well cut the Metropolitan Museum, the Guggenheim, MOMA, the Museum of Natural History, or the major galleries. “You are free to take out an ad,” I reminded them. 

Alias John Milton

Not surprisingly, that never mollified their rage. Whenever they were rude or abusive and demanded to know my supervisor, I gave them Ruth’s name. (She, in turn, referred her own complainers to me.) When they asked me to whom they were speaking, I always gave them the name of an English poet or novelist. “My name is John Milton,” or “My name is Thomas Hardy,” I told them. “Well, Mr. Milton (or Mr. Hardy),” they said, “you will be hearing again from me.” 

Between Ruth's desk and mine there was a constant ebb and flow of press releases, invitations, announcements, memos, and office detritus that reached a high tide by Thursday afternoon's press deadline only to recede by Friday after we had a chance to file or toss the flotsam.
     
The New York staff rubbed elbows after work at the New York Film Critics Circle awards with the year’s leading actors and directors and at private parties in Tavern on the Green with the original casts from both Saturday Night Live in 1975, after the magazine ran a story on the new show, and the Broadway hit Annie in 1977. A bowtie-wearing Sandy, the canine cast member, sat politely at a table with young Andrea McArdle, the original Broadway Annie, during dinner. Before that, Jim Kamish, a member of the New York staff, stood in line outside the restaurant with Paul Simon, John Belushi, Bill Murray, Gilda Radner, and others. He was directly behind Farrah Fawcett and leaned forward to sniff her hair. “What conditioner do you use?” he asked her.

Alex Trebek and Me

It was also around that time, in the mid-1970s, that I met Alex Trebek, about 10 years before he started his long-running gig as the host of Jeopardy. We at New York received word (maybe from Best Bets editor Ellen Stern, who seemed to know everyone and everything in New York City) that a new game show was in pre-production and looking for contestants. There was a local (that is, Manhattan) phone number to call about trying out for the show. At the other end of the line was a staffer who administered a quick general-interest quiz. Anyone who answered the questions correctly was invited to a makeshift studio (on the west side, I think) for an interview and a second round of questions. 

Many of us on staff enthusiastically took up the challenge. Alan Rich, much to his dismay, did not make the cut. He got the sports question wrong. It was unfair. Alan was more worldly and much more knowledgeable than any of us in every category except sports. 

Things were moving fast. We were advised that we needed to get to the studio that afternoon for the second stage of our tryout. I don’t remember a single question from either quiz, but somehow, I was still standing, along with assistant copy editor Quita McMath, after the second round. We were then escorted into another part of the studio and, with one other contestant, positioned behind separate counters or podiums (with game-show buzzers), much like those in use today on Jeopardy.

 
A producer explained that we would now take part in a pair of mock shows, to be played straight, including banter with the host and appropriate breaks for what in a real show would be commercials. As we were ready to begin, Trebek materialized from offstage. After a few quick preliminaries, the show began. I wish I could recall any part of the conversation with Alex, any of the questions, or even the name of the show. I do remember that Alex, a professional and a gentleman, played it like the real thing. Watching him on Jeopardy years later, I saw the same personality he showed in that mocked-up show. Oh, and I remember that I won both games, each worth $10,000. Alas, it was play money. The show, for whatever reason, never made it past that stage.
            
Tribal Rites of the New Saturday Night

New York published a story in 1976 by British writer Nik Cohn, Tribal Rites of the New Saturday Night (on which I had first read), about a group of young people in a Brooklyn disco. The story was the basis for the film Saturday Night Fever. I was Nik’s editor. When he arrived at the office one morning, he asked me what I was reading.

“The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter,” I replied.

Nik smirked, and then called across the room to where contributing writer Jon Bradshaw (Debbie referred to the two men as “the scornful Brits”) sat: “The heart is indeed a lonely hunter, Jon.” 

The staff later attended the premiere of Saturday Night Fever, after which we all went once again to Tavern on the Green to celebrate with the cast and the Bee Gees, whose music enlivened the soundtrack. The after-parties were always better and far more entertaining than the films.

To be continued

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.”