Word: fowlerize
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Skyline, by Gene Fowler. The 1920s again, with gusto...
Skyline, by Gene Fowler. The 1920s again, this time described by Old Newspaperman Fowler, who tells what bliss it was in that sweet dawn to be a Hearst managing editor, concerned only with the news value of James J. Walker and monkey glands...
Camelot-on-Hudson. To Fowler, the Manhattan of his day was Camelot, and his fellow newsmen-Grantland Rice, Westbrook Pegler, Heywood Broun, Arthur Brisbane-were knights of the round table, which was usually a bar. Fowler's personal idol and friend was Alfred Damon Runyon. Despite his Broadway camaraderie, Runyon was a brooding, lonely man, and there were distinct traces of rube in his makeup. He believed that to count as a New York know-it-all, he had to unearth a champion heavyweight. Over the years he maintained a series of fighters who ate like lions and fought...
...these disgraces to Cro-Magnon man was stabled at the Gotham Hotel. "This canvas inspector finished several breakfasts one Sunday morning," Fowler tells in one of the book's funnier anecdotes, "and was trying to read the comic pages of the American. He had just about mastered the spelling of the hard word 'Wow!' in a Barney Google episode when the bells of nearby St. Patrick's began to ring...
Down went this fighter to the rug. He roared out 'Foul!' The house dick burst in upon him to see the splendid athlete holding his groin, moaning like a busted pipe organ, and refusing to come out for another round." To Fowler's generation of writers, New York was always the Big Town, a drink was spiritus frumenti, and Broadway was the Rue Regret. Reading Skyline with or without spiritus frumenti, one question is bound to arise: Where are the monkey glands of yesteryear...