Word: manhattanization
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Every May, TV-network heads invite thousands of advertising execs to the Manhattan upfronts to watch clips of the new fall shows, then hobnob at sybaritic parties. The goal: to sell ads "up front" with slick talk and boundless ratings predictions. It is a capitalist orgy where art and commerce have one too many vodka tonics and end up in bed. I swallowed the bombast (and the finger food) and lived to tell the tale...
...February of last year, Victoria Reiter, 63, figured she had only a few months to live. A writer and translator living in Manhattan, she was suffering from chronic myeloid leukemia, an especially deadly form of blood cancer. The only treatment available was interferon, an immune-system booster that wasn't really working and that made her violently ill. Reiter had spent most of 1999 in bed, too sick to read, to walk, to do much of anything?although she had managed to put together lists dividing her possessions between her two daughters...
...February of last year, Victoria Reiter, 63, figured she had only a few months to live. A writer and translator living in Manhattan, she was suffering from chronic myeloid leukemia, an especially deadly form of blood cancer. The only treatment available was interferon, an immune-system booster that wasn't really working and that made her violently ill. Reiter had spent most of 1999 in bed, too sick to read, to walk, to do much of anything--although she had managed to put together lists dividing her possessions between her two daughters...
Advising them, for a fee, is a canny Manhattan p.r. mogul named Lucien Joyce, who lures some journalists to the event with the usual promises of complimentary travel, lodgings, food and booze. One of these veteran junketeers is J. Sutter, an African-American freelancer who has been covering, on someone else's tab, staged events every day for three months. Why not, he asks himself, just keep going until he breaks the freeloading record, whatever that...
...Phil and I headed to the Grill Room at the Four Seasons, the hardest place in Manhattan to get a table for lunch. I approached Julian Niccolini, the managing partner, and said, "I don't have a reservation, but I do have the Stanley Cup." Julian led us to a table and placed the Cup on it. By the end of the meal, nearly every diner had cell-phoned his assistant to bring a camera so he could get a picture with it. When we asked for a check, Julian refused our money. Phil and I belched the satisfied belches...