Two NYC Mayors, Falsely Lionized/Part II

Since last October when I wrote about what I view as the false lionization of New York City mayors Bloomberg and Giuliani by much of the national media, I’ve kept an eye out for stories of their conduct in office that underscores the points I made in that post last fall, when I wrote this paragraph:

“As mayor, Rudolph Giuliani was a daily irritant in the city, continually choosing confrontation over conciliation, seldom missing a chance to stoke the embers of urban enmity–between the police and the people; black and white citizens; between Manhattanites and residents in the other boroughs. On and on it went, year after year. When Abner Louima was sodomized by members of the NYPD, a word of apology never crossed that mayor’s lips. The same was true when Amadou Diallo was shot by police. Giuliani picked fights with museums and routinely showed contempt for free speech and free expression. It was like being trapped in a room with an unremittingly argumentative neighbor.”

I go on to say that after 9/11 it was as if national reporters hadn’t ever read one of the reams of story on Rudy’s meanness and divisiveness. Please note, it was often different for many hometown NY-based reporters, who tended to cover his high drama hijinks more honestly. So I perked right up today, when I saw this tweet from NY Times reporter Michael Powell::


 

I’ve now read that story, co-bylined with reporter Ross Buettner, headlined “In Matters Big and Small, Crossing Giuliani Had a Price,” in which they reported on the mayor’s vindictiveness in striking back at people he considered his enemies. As stated in the tweet, one of the people against whom Giuliani unleashed one of his many vendettas was Richard Murphy, whose recent death, marked this week by a NYT obituary, probably prompted Powell to tweet about the still pertinent article, a litany of abuse of power and petty payback in which Giuliani administration officials painted Mr. Murphy–formerly a youth services advocate in the administration of Mayor Dinkins, preceding Guliani–as corrupt, though there was no basis for this insinuation. They even bad-mouthed him to a prospective employer in California, a job he then wasn’t offered. From the 2008 article:

“I was soiled merchandise—the taint just lingers,’ Mr. Murphy said in a recent interview. Not long after, a major foundation recruited Mr. Murphy to work on the West Coast. The group wanted him to replicate his much-honored concept of opening schools at night as community centers. A senior Giuliani official called the foundation—a move a former mayoral official confirmed on the condition of anonymity for fear of embarrassing the organization—and the prospective job disappeared. ‘He goes to people and makes them complicit in his revenge,’ Mr. Murphy said.”

As for Mayor Bloomberg, even while supporting some of his initiatives, such as his advocacy of stricter gun regulations and the installation of more bike lanes around the city, his anti-democratic hubris in arranging city law to permit himself a third term continues to place him under a cloud. His State of the City address last week was a model of Bloombergian megalomania, with the Brooklyn Nets cheerleaders dancing before he took to the podium, where pennants and balloons festooned the Barclays Center. The colossally nervy message of his speech, according to this Feb. 13 NYT article, was that after he leaves his office, the city may be taken over by special interests, as if we’ve been free of them the past decade he’s held office.

“In an unabashed and relentless tribute to his own municipal stewardship, Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg on Thursday declared victory over 12 years of ‘obstructionists’ and ‘naysayers’ who sought to block his vision for New York City, and warned that an era of political independence might leave City Hall when he did. From the floor of the Barclays Center in Brooklyn—itself a monument to his ambitious and controversial development agenda—Mr. Bloomberg delivered his final State of the City address with a vow not to retreat into a state of ribbon-cutting resignation. . . . ‘The special interests and campaign donors have never had less power than they’ve had over the past 11 years,’ he said, alluding to his ability, because of his personal wealth, to refuse campaign donations. ‘And this year, we’re going to show them just how true that is . . . . ‘Given all the politics and special interests, if we don’t do it this year, it may never get done,’ he said of his proposed rezoning plan for the area around Grand Central Terminal, intended to encourage the construction of modern towers.”

So, a mayor who’s been a ceaseless proponent of ever-more development and an ally of to real estate interests, claims the city may suffer once his stewardship ends. To this malarkey, I echo these comments, quoted in the story on the Barclays Center extravaganz:

“’He still doesn’t understand that the city was here before him and will be here after he leaves,’ said Bill de Blasio, the public advocate and a Democratic candidate for mayor. ‘I heard a lot of creating temples to his greatness.’”

While I believe that the media have often contributed to the false lionization of these mayors, I am grateful to reporters Powell and Buettner, and the Timesmen who wrote the story on the State of the City speech, Michael M. Grynbaum and Michael Barbaro.

A Nasty Legacy of Superstorm Sandy

Cara Buckley’s New York Times story will make you squirm, including its dreadful detail on a basement one exterminator goes to work in, where others of his professional ilk had refused the job, so overrun with vermin was it.

Feting Michael Jacobs, a Publishing Friend of Many Years, for a Good Cause

Michael Jacobs program 4Last Thursday night the publishing industry finally had a chance to celebrate the career of Michael Jacobs, currently head of Abrams, who earlier had successful tenures at Scholastic, Simon & Schuster and Viking Penguin. I write “finally” because the event feting Michael–which was also designed to give his friends and colleagues the chance to contribute money for the good work of Goddard Riverside Community Center, a key provider of social services on the west side of Manhattan–was originally scheduled for Monday, October 29th, the night that Superstorm Sandy hit NYC.

In the aftermath of the devastating storm, I, and none of the friends I had been hoping to see that night, were sure that the event would be rescheduled. But just before Christmas it was announced the benefit would still be held, on January 31st. I was pleased, as many were, that we’d still have the chance to formally toast the honoree. On a side note, I picked up something interesting about event planning in NYC, and which may have pertained in this instance. A friend who seemed knowledgeable indicated that because the mayor’s office had officially shut the city down on the Sunday–shuttering subways and announcing school closures, all well in advance of the storm’s arrival–the bond that had been taken out on the event, the insurance against last-minute cancellation of it–did not have to be paid, at least not in full. The venue, Capitale on Bowery near Grand Street, never had to unlock its doors or turn on the lights, the caterer didn’t have to prepare a canape or uncork a bottle of wine, and the waitstaff didn’t have to don their livery and report for work. Thus, it seems that financial sacrifices for all parties were minimized and a make-up date could be scheduled, with donors’ contributions all going toward the benefit of Goddard Riverside, such a valuable community resource.

Capitale is a grand venue–a former bank–designed by architect Stanford White.*  The high, vaulted space looks like it could have been the set for a depression-era film, such as “American Madness,” where Walter Huston plays a bank president trying to avert a crippling ‘run’ on his institution. The evening began with a cocktail hour, where almost 500 guests began assembling right at the opening time of 6 PM. Even in this huge space it became cramped quickly, making it a challenge to get around and say hello to the friends and familiar faces one hadn’t seen in a long time. Still, it was very convivial, even shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, all at close quarters. I just wouldn’t have wanted to be one of the waiters serving those canapes. I saw Michael Jacobs and told him how glad I was this event was at last coming off. He was beaming. As with many people I know in the book business, I met Michael, then with Viking, sometime between 1978-85 when with my family I ran Undercover Books, a 3-store chain of indie bookstores in Cleveland, Ohio. Abrams was then known for publishing the most opulently printed art and coffee table books, and our store did great business with their whole list. The company has changed a lot since, but Abrams remains one of the finest publishers of illustrated books, along with childrens’ books and a range of nonfiction.

Around 7:00 we were asked to head through a curtain dividing the room and find our tables. I was at #37–a prime number, I thought–at a table put together by my friend, longtime rights maven, publisher, and agent, Mildred Marmur.** The program portion of the evening kicked off with an amusing short film made by Michael’s exceptional executive assistant, Merle Brown, with a crew made up of family members of hers. It was a scenario where Merle, as dinner benefit wrangler ‘stalks’ Chronicle Books president, Jack Jensen, to enroll his support. Jack continually dodges her and pleads with her to leave him alone. It was quite funny, with Merle speaking directly to the camera at points, feigning fatigue from chasing Jack all over, in apartment building lobbies, at an airport, and on the street. When it ended Merle introduced Jack, who quickly assured us he wasn’t really reluctant to be feting his good friend Michael. He and Michael had gotten to know each other around 1980, when they roomed together. Jack was followed by a number of speakers, including Abrams author Jeff Kinney, creator of the Diary of a Wimpy Kid series. Kinney explained how glad he was when Michael and he had capitalized on the launch of Diary of a Wimpy Kid: Cabin Fever in 2011 to benefit programs at Goddard Riverside. The materials handed out to guests included Goddard Riverside’s annual report for 2011, from which I learn that the Center’s roots reach back to the settlement house movement of the 19th century, in their case to 1887. Their annual budget is more than $20 million, supporting a day care center in a brownstone; a mobile mental health unit; a residence for low-income adults; and a center devoted to training college counseling professionals all over the city. There is also their signature book industry event, the annual holiday book fair, to which publishers contribute thousands of books, drawing New Yorkers every year.

Amid the remarks, salad, dinner and dessert were served and eaten. The program concluded when Michael was introduced by JP Leventhal, of Black Dog & Leventhal Publishers, and he took to the podium. It was a warm talk, full of affection for the book business that’s given him his career, and fondness for the many people who’ve befriended him along the way, especially for the folks who’d organized the dinner, even after its near-cancellation. He thanked lots of people by name, told us that more than $600,000 had been raised for Goddard Riverside, gave shout-outs to his family, and closed by reading a Wallace Stevens poem.

In a long line to retrieve my coat and bag, I found myself waiting with Penguin editor-in-chief Kathryn Court, and Elliott Figman, executive director of Poets & Writers, whom I had never met before, though I enjoy his magazine. The three of us discussed how Sandy had displaced us to varying extents. I was tickled to learn that Elliott, who went to Oberlin College, clearly remembered Robert Fuller, now my author client, who was president of Oberlin for 4 years.  We enjoyed meeting and agreed to talk again another time.

It was a great night for Michael Jacobs, and a grand night for publishing, affirming once again that the book business is still a collegial world, filled with people who care for one another, and for their city.

*I recall that the ill-fated White was played by Norman Mailer in Ragtime, the 1981 movie adapted from E.L. Doctorow’s historico-literary novel. The plot covered, in part, the murder of White by Harry Thaw, who was jealous of White’s affair with his wife Evelyn Nesbit, played by Elizabeth McGovern, nowadays playing Cora in “Downton Abbey.”

**In 1975, while Marmur was Director of Subsidiary Rights at Random House, the company published Ragtime in hardcover. She auctioned the rights to Doctorow’s novel to Bantam, for what was then the largest deal ever made for a paperback reprint of a literary novel, $1,850.000.

Please click through here to see all photos.

The Arkells’ Great Show in NYC Jan. 9

PST & Max
Hanging w/Max Kerman, charismatic lead singer of the Arkells, after the band’s great live show in NYC Jan. 9, Webster Hall. Please click here to see four more photos from their show.

Readings from “Rust Belt Chic” at Vol. 1 Brooklyn Reading Series

New Year’s Day I began to feel creeping over me one of the viruses that’s been forcing so many people to their beds. Day One’s utter tiredness soon morphed into a stomach bug. After three semi-miserable days, by Thursday night, Jan. 3, I was finally well enough to venture out of the apartment. I’d been building myself up to enough of a rally that I hoped I could manage at least a couple hours out in public. I was scheduled to be among the readers at a long-planned night of readings from Rust Belt Chic: The Cleveland Anthology, to which I’d contributed, “Remembering Mr. Stress, Live at the Euclid Tavern.” I’d been looking forward to it since RBC co-editor Anne Trubek asked if I wanted to be part of the event. What’s more, I’d invited friends who said they’d be there–I couldn’t not show up. Still, not feeling good yet, I let Jason Diamond, host of the reading series Vol. 1 Brooklyn know that I’d been ill and asked if he could slot me in early on the program, in case I had to bail or something. He was great about it, putting me first. I appreciated this. I used to often speak up first in classes, and have never minded being in that spot.

The reading room at Public Assembly in Williamsburg, Brooklyn was a big darkish space with rows of folding metal chairs, some upholstered benches, and lights above and behind a wide stage on one side.  Jason introduced the program by revealing his geographic own roots–not Cleveland but Chicago. He said that to a kid like him growing up in Chicago–while parts of the nearby Midwest clearly identified with something: Minnesota=hockey; Wisconsin=the Packers; Detroit=the Pistons, who Bulls fans hated–about Cleveland–even less was certain. It struck me that while Chicago may have its widely reputed Second City issues, it’s always the First City of the Midwest. After Jason read the brief bio about me that I’d provided, he brought me up to the stage. As I set my talking script on a music stand next to the mic I looked out across the chairs and found I couldn’t see anything or anybody. Those lights above the stage were now all behind me, leaving me peering in to a black cavern. I was a bit unsettled, not having presented somewhere like this before. When I speak, say, at a publisher’s sales conferences, I rely on eye contact with the book reps to know how my points and pitches are landing. I had some lines in my script I hoped would prompt a few laughs, or a tear, but the delivery was going to be tricky under the circs. No problem, I thought, I know people are still sitting there, even if I can’t see anyone. With that, I launched in to the piece:.

Growing up in the hotbed of rock n’ roll that was Cleveland in the 60s and 70s, I began going to hear live music before I had even turned fourteen. 

This was exciting. I could feel confidence growing in the crowd that they were going to be hearing something interesting. Their interest seemed to grow as I read and talked the piece over the next six minutes. At about the midpoint, I revealed a visual aid I had brought–my copy of the album that gave my essay its name, “Mr. Stress, Live at the Euclid Tavern.” This drew an appreciative titter from the crowd. I wrapped up with these two graphs:

In reporting this piece, I interviewed Cleveland musician Alan Green, with whom Stress played live gigs as late as 2010.  He reminded me that Stress was born a minute after midnight on New Year’s Day in 1943, and was feted as Cleveland’s firstborn of the new year—a fitting birth for a bluesman if you remember bluesmen singing the lyric about the fabled character, “born the 7th son of a 7th mother on the 7th day.” Clearly, Stress had a suitable pedigree for a bluesman. Alan’s reminder that Stress had long ago been a New Year’s baby brought back a flood of rich memories from great New Year’s Eve shows when Stress and revelers raucously marked a new year and Bill’s birthday.

Living in New York City today I remain a devotee of going out to hear live music, a happy habit I formed forty years ago listening to Mr. Stress. I must add that after Rust Belt Chic was published last fall, Stress read my essay and we’ve been reunited via telephone and the Internet, after more than 25 years being out of touch. He’s very glad to see his career remembered in this book. Even with macular degeneration, he still reads voraciously with the aid of voice-enabled software. We were in touch on his birthday two days ago, his 70th, and he knows I’m presenting his story here tonight. 

I felt good delivering this tribute. It was mete and right to honor Mr. Stress who warrants more homage and notoriety for having given so much to the blues and Cleveland’s live music scene over many decades. As I added for the crowd, Stress’s impaired vision may be at least partly attributable to his music-making, for he told a Cleveland Plain Dealer reporter in 2011,

“I woke up one morning and. . . I had lost a third of my vision. I’ve heard it comes from [a harmonica player] blowing so hard, you pop blood vessels. I can’t drive or get around as well. But it ain’t stopping me from playing the blues.”

As I finished I glanced up from my pages and looked into the darkness. A soft “Whew” and a whistle came from the audience, then an uprush of clapping. I was amazed at how long the applause lasted, seeming to go on for many seconds. I couldn’t have asked for a more attentive audience, or a more appreciative reception.

I was followed by six other readers, five of whom were contributors to Rust Belt Chic, all former Clevelanders, and one guest Michigander, who told a story about Detroit. It was a grand night, made grander by the boisterous crowd, easily more than 50 people–this, only three nights after New Year’s Eve–Jason Diamond‘s inspired MCing; and stellar presentations.

The order in which the seven of us read, from last to first is pasted in below, with our bios as they were provided to Jason, readers’ relevant links, and a brief note on the topics each of us presented. I made an audio recording and if I’m able, will later share my reading on Mr. Stress. I want to thank certain friends who came to the event: Bridget Marmion, of Your Expert Nation, a book marketing firm with which I am also associated ; Daniel Zitin, independent editor, and his son Benjamin; and Peter Ginna and George Gibson, of Bloomsbury Publishing (they are also colleagues with RBC contributor, Pete Beatty, who was the evening’s last reader.). Copies of Rust Belt Chic: The Cleveland Anthology were sold that night, and you can buy it too,  from Cleveland-area retailers, online booksellers, and the RBC website. I urge you to support this unique expression of community literary spirit.

Meantime, if you want to read my essay pretty much as I delivered it Thursday night, please find it at the post below this one here on The Great Gray Bridge. You may also click on this link for the complete post with photos, the contributor bios and their topics of discussion.

Readings From Rust Belt Chic, Jan. 3, at Public Assembly in Williamsburg, Brooklyn

 

Happy to share the above tweet, and expand upon it. Next Thursday, January 3, 2013, at Public Assembly, 70 North 6th Street, Brooklyn, near the Bedford Street station stop of the ‘L’ train in Williamsburg, a posse of Clevelanders, some transplanted to NYC, and others just visiting, will read from Rust Belt Chic: The Cleveland Anthology. I will be presenting my contribution to the book, “Remembering Mr. Stress, Live at the Euclid Tavern,” a personal essay on a venerable bluesman I followed avidly the years I lived in Cleveland. I hope to see you there!