Magazines Rule, the Beekman Boys Rock, Roseanne Sucks, Plus More Rules for Flacks

Magazines will always be front and center in my home

I've covered the magazine business for 20-something years now. I still can't get enough of them. Which is why they are front and center in my home (this is my coffee table at the moment) and in my life. I buy them for myself, I buy them for friends and family, I get endless ideas from them, I learn about new people and places from them, and I rip out and keep and refer back to the pages that mean something to me. I write stories for them and about them. I read books about them and the people who create them — most recently, Tina Brown's Vanity Fair Diaries, which is delicious if you haven't dived in yet. I have artwork on my walls that is inspired by them. I have close friends and longtime colleagues who make their living off them. I still get excited when they arrive at my desk every week. Digital media has become an indispensable part of all our daily lives, but print makes me feel connected to content in a way machinery and the internet never will. Which is why a good chunk of my working life remains devoted to contributing my own words to them. And why I prefer actual books to ebooks. And why I still subscribe to three daily papers and write letters to the editor and get a thrill when they opt to print them. 

Home to 122 goats

This past Memorial Day weekend was spent over in Sharon Springs, New York, at the town's annual Garden Party, where we took a tour of the Beekman Boys' famous goat farm and picked up a passel of awesome handcrafted products of theirs and other local shopkeepers, artists and artisans — barbecue sauce, peanut butter, soaps and lotions. Meeting and visiting with the "boys" — Brent Ridge and Josh-Kilmer Purcell — in their shop, Beekman 1802 Mercantile, was good fun, though, having followed their successes in marketing and media all these years, it felt like I already knew them. (I'd actually already met Josh, a former ad guy, a time or two in passing. We have some mutual acquaintances and have been Facebook friends for a while.) It was especially interesting to chat up Brent — an expat of Martha Stewart's empire — about their terrific quarterly magazine, Beekman 1802 Almanac, one of the most beautiful and soulful lifestyle titles I've ever come across. Brent told me they had wondered whether a big, thick, lushly produced print magazine would fly in this day and age, and it did — right off the shelves. He seemed pleased that they'd sold so many subscriptions at a premium price (30 bucks for four issues; the newsstand price is 10 bucks). It's always mystified me that magazine publishers virtually give their products away — and never more than now, as they become ever more desperate to compete with digital media and hold onto readers. (Just look at the number of $5 annual subscription offers you get in your email box.) The boys have proved that consumers will — even in our digital age — pony up for a lovingly crafted, high-quality product. 

From national treasure to national disgrace

When I first read about Roseanne's horrific tweet whose contents shall not be repeated here, I literally got sick to my stomach. Then, the media reporter part of me kicked in and wondered how in the world ABC was going to deal with this mess. It wasn't too long before we all got the answer. In one quick moment, Roseanne destroyed her show, her career and the livelihoods of many people who'd taken a chance on her despite the strange, hateful fringe she's been loving up to for a while now. Someone shared this bit of nostalgia on social media: a TV Guide cover from the 80s featuring the two biggest TV stars of the day, Roseanne and Bill Cosby. How time changes things. From superstars to national punchlines in just three short decades. No matter one's successes or fame or money, it seems human beings simply cannot be trusted to not succumb to their own worst instincts.

How you PR flacks make me feel sometimes

Finally, I'd just like to say that I usually, greatly enjoy my job as a journalist. I have found that most people who've managed to survive this business for any stretch of time are a pleasure to work with, and that goes for bosses and colleagues I've had, subjects I've covered, and even the PR people whose job it is to control my access to the powers that be and at least attempt to shape the things I write about them. I am proud to say that I have many PR people I think are super at their jobs, who expertly ride that tricky line between serving their masters and getting me what I need to do my work. Many of them I consider friends. Which is why it makes the bad ones so glaringly awful. I just have to share with you that I've spent the last two weeks trying to arrange a quick and easy interview with a bureaucrat through his handlers, who seem to think they are negotiating either the release of a hostage or the terms of a 60 Minutes firing squad. After the umpteenth time of going over the broad strokes of what the talk was to entail — and even agreeing to do that which no reporter ever wants: sending over the questions in advance — I finally reached the point today where I told the flack: Look, this is now in your hands. The decision is yours whether or not this profile is going to happen. If there is not an interview set up by end of business today, I will assume my request is denied and I will find someone else to write about. By now you can probably write the end of this story yourself: Of course they caved and started scrambling to get me whatever I wanted. A close friend of mine gave me some smart advice once about getting information out of people: Act the most uninterested, get the most dirt. In her memoir, Linda Ellerbee shared a story about an interview she once tried to do with an erratic Hunter S. Thompson, who seemed more interested in mouthing off and prancing about than sitting for an agreed-upon, on-camera conversation. All she had to do was start packing up her shit and heading for the exit to get the famous writer to finally get control of himself and sit his ass down for the work at hand. Sometimes all you have to do is tell some self-important jerk you didn't really want to talk to him all that much anyway, that he's not nearly as remarkable or fascinating as he thinks he is, and that you've got a lot better things to do with your time — and just watch how fast he comes running. It's an annoying little game for an adult to have to play with another adult, but also a necessary one to get the story — and one every old reporter can relate to when it comes to wrestling these massive egos to the ground.

R.I.P. Interview (Even Though You've Been a Cold, Lifeless Corpse for a Very Long Time)

Everybody bemoaned the seemingly sudden shuttering this week of Interview — Andy Warhol's iconic and onetime influential chronicler of actors, models, rock stars, artists, writers, politicians and others who compose impolite society — following years of financial woes, alleged depravity in the ranks and, the absolute worst thing that can happen to you if you're in the business of purveying content, nonexistent readers, advertisers or buzz. But let's face it — Interview died a long, long time ago. I for one would prefer to remember it as it once was: my gateway, as a fish-out-of-water teenager in Tennessee, to a world of 80s-era New York art, culture, and debauchery. I even had framed covers of the magazine, with their striking, technicolor drawings of the most important people of the day, lining the walls of my apartment in college. (A few covers that come immediately to mind: a mesmerizing, luminous Grace Jones, a gravity-defying Dolly Parton by Robert Risko, and an uncomfortably jailbait-ish Marky Mark in his underwear, before he became Mark Wahlberg: Movie Star.) I remember experiencing Interview for the very first time when I was 14, at a now-defunct newsstand called Mosko's near the Vanderbilt campus. It's also the first place I ever saw the Sunday New York Times, newspapers printed in other languages, and art and nudie magazines. (I believe this all-important way station in my development is now a Subway sandwich shop. At least Obie's Pizza and the Elliston Place Soda Shop have survived the gentrification bulldozer.) To say flipping through the pages of Interview for the first time was a seminal moment in my history is downplaying things — I'd never come across anything like this, had never read about people and places or seen images like this, and had certainly never read writing like this. As a wannabe writer, the magazine served as my entree to and tutorial in Q&A-style journalism — and Interview did the very best of it there ever was thanks to a long line of editors and writers that includes Bob Colacello, Ingrid Sichy and Kevin Sessums. Q&As get a bad rap — a lot of people think they are the cheapest and easiest thing to produce when in reality, when done at their most expert, they can be the most intimate and revealing form of reporting. But aside from all that, and probably most significantly, the magazine was my introduction to a lady who would shape my writing style, fuel my youthful fantasies about New York City and cement my cockeyed view of the world — I refer, of course, to the one and only Fran Lebowitz. (In Martin Scorcese's documentary about Fran from a few years back, she recalls going down to the Factory in 1969, the year Interview was started, to talk Andy into hiring her to write for it. When she knocked on the door, the voice on the other side — belonging to Andy — asked, "Who is it?" Fran shot back: "Valerie Solanas!" Andy opened the door.) Like you, I haven't read Interview in years. It had become boring and pointless, one more irrelevant, heritage media brand running on the fumes of its former glory and competing with way too much other, more vital content. But I will always remember it, and revere it, for helping make me, me.

Gentlemen, Burn Your Blue Blazers and Neckties: An Ode to Working From Home

The Times has some pointers for those of us who work from home — including setting alarms to remind ourselves of certain tasks we need to get to. Personally, if I had bells going off all times of the day, I'd have to check myself into a loony bin. It seems to me that if you have a work ethic and a measure of self-discipline, it ought to make no difference whether you work in a cubicle surrounded by other drones or at Starbucks or on the wing of a 757 — or in your own home. And it doesn't much matter, despite advice to the contrary, whether or not you have a devoted workspace in your domain. I've had deadlines that got met just as timely and efficiently from the kitchen countertop next to a boiling chicken as they did the quiet second bedroom I call an office. That said, there are clearly those personalities that require the structure, procedure and camaraderie that come with office jobs. I am definitely not one of those people. During my years as a working journalist, I have been my own boss from time to time, and while it's not for everybody, I have always found it to be a productive, creative and largely happy predicament. Meanwhile, the same does not apply to all the 9-5 jobs I have had in between. (My ambivalence about my fellow man, rubbing elbows with him and breathing his second-hand air is well documented.) As a freelance person, there is tremendous satisfaction in setting your own hours, wearing t-shirts and flip-flops all day (I've saved a small fortune in dry cleaning), and being free to say yes to working for certain people and no to others. I for one don't miss languishing in pointless, unproductive staff meetings where I'm forced to pretend an unctuous CEO's stream-of-conscience blather and steaming pile of corporate-speak amount to pearls of wisdom. In office life, as in life in general, so much time is wasted listening to other people who like to hear themselves talk but say nothing. Ah, bosses. One particularly awful one even had his charges (including me) take personality tests to determine whether they were compatible with him and were, in fact, "company material." You know, there was once another group that exercised strict rules determining whether people were in or were out based on certain identifiable and perceived inferior characteristics: the Nazis. Now, there's only one person my personality has to suit: me. And I don't even own a pair of jackboots. I think I shall keep it that way. As for this week, you can find me out in my garden finishing another deadline. If it ever stops raining.

Great American Kathy Griffin Is Finished Apologizing: She's Too Busy Going on Stern, Selling Out Carnegie Hall and Radio City

The fearless Kathy Griffin announced this morning on "The Howard Stern Show" that, after selling out Carnegie Hall in a single day, she is doing a second show in NYC, at Radio City Music Hall. (I've already got my tickets. How about you?) The Stern interview was entertaining, inspiring and informative — we learned that basically everybody in Hollywood turned their backs on Kathy after her Trump photo stunt, even (as we already knew) her supposedly close friend, former New Year's cohost, and embarrassment to journalism and gay men everywhere Anderson Cooper, and (as we just learned today, sadly) her onetime bestie Cher. (If you didn't catch the show this morning, find a way to listen to it after the fact on the SiriusXM app or YouTube or wherever. Listening to her talk the tweets she gets from Trump supporters — I won't spoil the fun here, but, oh boy — is alone worth the cost of a Sirius subscription.) Look, you are absolutely entitled to not like what Kathy did, or to think whatever you want about it, or to hate her guts. But the thing is, surely you agree that, in retrospect, considering what a shit show this administration has turned out to be, a celebrity photo shoot is pretty small potatoes. Understood, saying what you think does not always come without consequences, but I — and I'm not alone — don't think this woman deserved to have her life ruined over it. (I find it interesting that, on the topic of free speech, people like the CEO of Barilla pasta and the grand wizard or whatever he is of "Duck Dynasty" certainly never had to pay for their hateful homophobic comments. Donald Trump, who said the most vile things about President Obama, and encouraged even worse from his fans, was not subjected, as was Kathy, to an investigation by the Department of Justice but, rather, was rewarded with the presidency. And isn't it funny how the right demonized Roseanne Barr back in the day for her supposedly vulgar and disrespectful rendition of the national anthem at that baseball game, but now suddenly she's their poster girl, her show has been renewed by ABC and she's been praised by the president himself — all because the Roseanne the character and the person is a Trump supporter. Thinking about all the double standards are enough to make your head hurt.) The full-on assault Kathy Griffin has been subjected to — from the Hollywood "community," the media and the Trump administration, which apparently has nothing better to do than use the full powers of the U.S. government to torment a comedian — fits the very definition of the punishment not fitting the crime. But happily, just like the Dixie Chicks and others before her, she's coming back and is going to be bigger than ever. With everything else going on in the world, why am I ranting and raving about Kathy Griffin? I am a longtime fan and admirer, yes, but more importantly, I find the way she has been dragged through hell to be particularly ugly, unjust, egregious, infuriating, un-American — and familiar. Surely on some level all of us know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of, as Kathy would put it, a falling wall of shit. (I know I do.) As a journalist, I am supposed to remain neutral, but about Kathy Griffin I am and will always be totally and unapologetically biased. She is an American treasure, a heroine and a very funny lady. Do your patriotic duty and support her: http://kathygriffin.com.

Madison Ave Takes on Trump: Could 'Diversity Bowl' Mean That Hate Is No Longer Winning?

If you thought the divisive blowhard with the orange hair and bloated ego would loom large during this year's Super Bowl, you'd be wrong. In fact, the most horrible person alive wasn't referenced even once during the parade of multimillion-dollar commercial spots — maybe because we're all sick of him, maybe because we've finally come to realize that the best way to deal with a pathetic bully and attention whore is to ignore him, and maybe, most vitally, his brand of proud racism, xenophobia and sexism is no longer to be tolerated, and the biggest advertisers in the world aren't afraid to say so. As CNN's Chris Cillizza writes: "The calculation was clearly made by several different ad agencies — and the corporations who hired them — that using their 30 seconds or one minute to provide a check on the vision of the country pushed by Trump was the way to go. That there are enough consumers in the country who flatly reject the way in which Trump sees and talks about the country to make it financially worth the companies' time to hang an ad on that sentiment." When I first saw the ads last night from Coke, T-Mobile and Kraft (see video above), I have to say, I thought they were a pretty sappy (and safe) effort from a creative point of view. (Toyota's take on the old "a priest and a rabbi walk into a bar" trope was a clever exception.) But seeing them fresh, and considering them collectively and through Cillizza's sharply focused lens, it occurs to me that it did take nerve for these advertisers to so boldly embrace multiculturalism — which is a seriously depressing sentence to have to write in the year 2018, but also a hopeful one, in that maybe it means that the tide is turning. This was "The Diversity Bowl" at a time of extreme antipathy (that's the nice term) toward anything or anyone "different" in this country, where the American public is being divided, bamboozled, gaslighted and scared shitless on a daily basis. You can only be so full of anger and bluster — before long, even the most spiteful among us must get exhausted from all that hate. It's a far cry from last year, when the CEO of 84 Lumber felt compelled to clarify that its terrific, and obviously anti-Trump, commercial in the Super Bowl was not, in fact, meant to be political — effectively yanking the fangs out of what was a ballsy, righteous statement. So far this time around, though, the world's most powerful consumer brands and their partners on Madison Avenue aren't backing down. They don't have to. Reasonable people of every persuasion — cultural, political, whatever — seem to have grown pretty weary of the hostility.

The New York Times Magazine Does a Cover Story on the Profound Cultural Significance of RuPaul and "Drag Race"—Now, Why Didn't I Think of That (Three And A Half Years Ago)?

LA Times Publisher Gets Called Out by NPR

A most distressing story today from NPR about my former boss Ross Levinsohn—currently the publisher of The Los Angeles Times—and an alleged history of sexual misconduct and what's being called "frat house behavior" at companies he's worked for. In the handful of months (just under a year, as I recall) he held the reins of the company that published The Hollywood Reporter, Billboard and my old magazine, Adweek, all I can say is, I never witnessed such behavior. Of course, that's not saying much—I never witnessed him much, period. The company was in New York but Ross lives in LA, and as one of the senior most editors of one of the media properties he oversaw, I think I laid eyes on him two, maybe three times tops—usually when there were a red carpet and paparazzi involved. In fact, I remember one glitzy event where I snapped a picture with my own iPhone of Ross with a couple of our colleagues, along with our guest of honor Russell Simmons—a powerful man who's been the subject of some unfortunate headlines himself lately. As for Ross, he was one of a number of CEOs the company ran through in a few short years, before my magazine was spun off and eventually sold off to a group of foreign investors. Within a couple of hours of NPR breaking this story, it got picked up by sites like The Cut, Mediaite and the LA Business Journal, while The Daily Beast reported that the Times's guild called on Ross to be fired. But by 5 p.m. New York time, I'd yet to find anything about any of this on the Times's own homepage. Still, the Times itself has now become part of the news cycle, one in a long list of news organizations—including Fox, NBC, CBS and Vice—caught up in a seemingly bottomless mess of sexual misconduct scandals. And you thought Hollywood and Washington were of morally dubious character. If Caligula, Mussolini and Charles Manson were alive today, they'd probably run a media company.