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Jewish World Review /Feb. 24, 1999 /7 Adar 5759
MUGGER
The New Yorker Takes the Local:
Mister Hertzberg Strikes Out
I’LL ADMIT FROM THE OUTSET that I haven’t finished reading The New
Yorker’s "double" issue devoted to the city that’s currently on
newsstands. Maybe I was put off by Ed Sorel’s cover, which appeared to
have been drawn on the train up to the weekly’s office.
More likely, it was Peter Carlson’s syrupy valentine to the issue that
ran in The Washington Post on Feb. 16. How’s this for a groaning first
sentence that some lazy Post editor didn’t spike: "There are 8 million
stories in the naked city and here’s one of them."
Worse still was Nancy Franklin’s insufferably stupid "Comment" that led
off "The Talk of the Town." A buffet of cliches, Franklin’s piece
invokes Ed Koch, better known as Hizzoner, subway buskers, cabbies who
drive too fast, the intolerable condition of public schools, the majesty
of Central Park and the New York Public Library and the tension between
Manhattan’s haves and have-nots.
Franklin writes: "Whatever you think of
the results of the cleanup of Times Square, the speed with which the
transformation occurred proves that where there’s a will there’s a way."
Indeed, Nancy: Start Spreading The News. Her conclusion tops them all,
and if I were Cindy Adams—God, what a thought!—I’d consult an attorney.
Franklin: "Here you will have the worst and the best days of your life,
and your response to both will be the same: Only in New York."
My first reaction was: Why didn’t editor David
Remnick muster the creativity to assign Ben Katchor this story? The
article is titled "Topless Tabloids of Gotham," some staffer’s sin of
the week, with the subhed "Latest on Post v. News slay fest!" I suppose
it has some worth to the New Yorker subscriber who doesn’t normally
dirty himself with such reading, but it left me cold. Hertzberg, after a
requisite recitation of the celebrities and villains who populate these
newspapers (Monica, Pamela Anderson, Bill Clinton, O.J., etc.), then
takes us back to a chronological examination of the New York tabloid. He
explains some of the terms that are peculiar to this kind of
periodical—"wood," "reefers" and the like—and says, "The writing, at its
best, is as direct and riveting as a ransom note."
I’m sure that observation reassured the News’ usually excellent Michael
Daly.
Such drivel nearly drove me to Nickelodeon, but I soldiered on, betting
to myself that Hertzberg would eventually mention the two most famous
contemporary tabloid headlines, and indeed he did: The News’ "Ford to
City: Drop Dead" and the Post’s "Headless Body in Topless Bar." He
meandered his way to Rupert Murdoch’s first purchase of the Post,
acquired from the liberal Dorothy Schiff, and said that "Acquiring the
Post put [Murdoch] on the American map." Incidentally, Hertzberg fails
to note that in the same 60 days,
The two photos that accompany Hertzberg’s article rankle as well.
There’s a full-pager of Liz Smith, whom the author describes as "sweet"
rather than the lapdog of p.r. spiders and the Vanity Fair promotions
department that she in fact is; and a jarringly out-of-place picture of
Robert Silvers and Barbara Epstein, co-editors of The New York Review of
Books.
The only mention of that irrelevant publication is connected to
the Daily News columnist Lars-Erik Nelson, a fellow Hertzberg—and
really, I don’t think he’s joking—deems "so smart that he moonlights"
for Silvers and Epstein. That Nelson hoists his flag for class warfare
and the Clintons in nearly every column he writes can’t be lost on
Hertzberg; I can only conclude they’re of similar minds politically.
(In Monday’s Times, media reporter Alex Kuczynski, writing about the
News’ expanding Sunday paper, kicks in with a cliche that’s worthy of
The New Yorker: "For New Yorkers who can’t get enough newsprint, there
will soon be something new to go with their Sunday bagel, lox and
mid-morning George Stephanopoulos fix." Somebody call the medics! I
can’t take much more of this atrocious prose! But have no fear: Ed
Kosner, the retread editor who’s overseeing the project, has hired
Brill’s Content reject Michael Kramer to edit the News’ enlarged opinion
section. "A work in progress," Kuczynski elicits from Kramer, "as
eclectic a mix as possible, with a lot of short stuff as well as
traditional, column-length pieces." Revolutionary.)
However, I did like Hertzberg’s slap at News owner Mortimer Zuckerman:
"New York’s media elites read the Times for information and the Post for
gossip and a giggle. The people who play softball with Mort Zuckerman in
the Hamptons read the Post. They don’t generally read the News—a source
of great frustration for the star pitcher." Hertzberg’s intimation of
personal knowledge about Zuckerman’s pitching prowess is surely
appalling, and I don’t think White House aides read Post reporter
Deborah Orin’s stories with a "giggle," but who can ever get enough of
Zuckerman-bashing?
Finally, as if Hertzberg hasn’t exhausted you yet with his elitist take
on this species of newspaper, there’s this nauseating anecdote: "And
[tabloids] are treasures. When I was a little boy, we had the Times
delivered, but my father sometimes brought home the tabloids as a
slightly naughty treat." Well, at least he didn’t describe the men and
women who work at these papers as "ink-stained wretches." That, after so
much hokum, would’ve made me heave.
A Search for the Clemens Upside
I’D JUST FINISHED ANOTHER TIRESOME AL HUNT COLUMN about the magic of
presidential fraud John McCain last Thursday in the Journal when my
second oldest brother gave me a buzz. After making small talk, he
gloated about some horrible news that hadn’t made the morning papers.
Roger Clemens was now a Yankee. My brother, born in ’44, and a Yanks fan
during the heyday of that heinous team when they were the General Motors
of baseball, said with a sick laugh, "Yeah, but why did Steinbrenner
have to get rid of Homer Bush?" I told him to knock off the funny stuff
if he didn’t want me to hang up right then and there.
Duquette thought The Rocket was washed up, in the "twilight of his
career": Instead, the ornery Texan totted up two consecutive Cy Young
awards for the mediocre Jays. But now, with Clemens going to the hated
Yanks, it makes a Bosox fan want to give up and just boycott the season
altogether. The only upside is that my two sons will be able to see The
Rocket at the Stadium and tell their kids about it: just as my brothers
can brag about watching Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford and Yogi Berra; like
my mother and two uncles could talk about sitting in the bleachers while
Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio made baseball history.
Actually, Junior did see The Rocket pitch once, but he wasn’t quite two
years old. We had tickets in nosebleed territory, but the little guy
stuck it out for seven innings. It was a lot of fun: We were accompanied
by my nephew Cal and his buddy Dan, a few friends from NYPress, and Mrs.
M, plump with MUGGER III in her belly, was a real sport for making the
trip. One pitfall: The Yanks won the game, and as we were leaving some
beery Bomber fans taunted me for wearing a Bosox cap, even though it was
a day game and only the beginning of June.
Despite the tragic ending of the ’86 World Series, that was a banner
year for Clemens and the Sox, as he reeled off 14 consecutive wins at
one stretch, struck out 20 Seattle Mariners in an April game and won his
first Cy Young award. I’ve seen him pitch at different ballparks—Fenway,
Yankee Stadium, Memorial Stadium, the Toronto Skydome—and it’s usually
been electrifying. Once, my brother and I bought first-row tickets, at
500 clams apiece, for the first game of the ’90 American League playoffs
against the mighty Oakland A’s. Clemens left after the sixth with a 1-0
lead; of course, Boston’s stinky bullpen blew it and the Sox wound up
losing by about eight runs and were swept in four games.
Clemens
responded: "I don’t put any stock in what he says. If it were Reggie
Jackson—someone I respect—it might be different. I wish he was still
playing. If he were, I’d probably crack his head open to show him how
valuable I was." Hyperbole, sure, but Yanks fans who are disappointed
that David Wells, the hard-living pitcher who went to the Jays for
Clemens, is gone, won’t be let down by The Rocket.
Maybe that doesn’t include Jim Bouton, who ridiculed the Yanks’ new star
in the Times last Sunday. Bouton, in bemoaning the loss of Wells, who
until last year was essentially a journeyman ballplayer, wrote the
following about Clemens: "What did the Yankees get in return? A pitching
machine named Roger Clemens, the Cy Young Award winner who flunks
chemistry—precisely the kind of guy the Yankees bragged about not having
last year. The sort of player who’d rather join a winning team than work
to build one."
What a bitter crock of hooey. Clemens was the Red Sox franchise player
for more than 10 years and would’ve stayed with the team if a
short-sighted general manager hadn’t forced him to seek different
employment. How many other current major league stars have logged that
much time with one team, Jim? Not Wells. And Clemens was the soul of the
Red Sox, the man who helped build a winner several times in Boston. Now,
in the last quarter of his career, who can blame him if he wants to
pitch for a team that could win the World Series ring that eluded him in
I slogged through Hendrik Hertzberg’s long, if perfunctory, history of
New York’s tabloid newspapers. Just the first sentence tells us we’re in
for an academic, and considering the author, necessarily condescending
read: "Aside from certain subatomic particles and unrefrigerated
egg-salad sandwiches, few physical objects are more ephemeral than a
tabloid newspaper."
Remnick
Murdoch also acquired, in one fell
swoop, New York, New West and the Village Voice. A small point, perhaps,
but one that would’ve lent credence—and maybe this wasn’t on Hertzberg’s
agenda—to the notion that Murdoch was an equal-opportunity buyer,
whether the publication was liberal, trendy or even radical. (And it
must be stated that during Murdoch’s tenure as Voice owner—’77-’85—he
interfered little with its editorial degeneration.)
Murdoch
Hertzberg poses the hypothetical question that if you were forced to
pick either the Post or News as your "sole source of information about
the world we live in," you would "certainly pick the News." After all,
the News employs Nelson, runs "Doonesbury," has better TV listings and
cityside columnists and presents news in a "more balanced, less
distorted manner." Given the News’ hysterical editorials, which are far
more shrill than the Post’s, I think it’s obvious that Hertzberg reads
neither on a regular basis.
Nelson
I’ve had three favorite baseball players in my many years as a Bosox
fan: Dick Stuart, Carl Yastrzemski and Clemens. Sure, Dick Radatz, Rico
Petrocelli, Tony Conigliaro, Bill Lee, Jim Rice and Jim Lonborg all
rated, and now Nomar Garciaparra, but those three were my guys. It was a
nightmare when the moronic Dan Duquette, Boston’s GM, allowed Clemens to
leave for the Blue Jays (just like he screwed over Mo Vaughn so badly
that that beloved Boston star split for the Angels after last season).
Clemens
Clemens is also a hothead, a throwback to a different era of
baseball—and a player that the anal purist George Will wouldn’t approve
of—throwing at batters in retaliation for the opposing team’s pitchers’
brushbacks of his teammates. In Ursula Reel’s Post story last Friday she
recounted a doozy of a Rocket story. After Clemens won the American
League MVP award in ’86, Bill Clinton’s new best friend, Hank Aaron,
protested, saying the honor should go only to everyday players.
Will
JWR contributor "Mugger" is the editor-in-chief and publisher of New York Press. Send your comments to him by clicking here.
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