Word: yorkers
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...from New York's Department of Motor Vehicles, but that quality certainly didn't show in the final product. The ID obtained by FM was accurate visually, but when bent, showed crease marks. A real New York license bounces back to its original shape unharmed like a real New Yorker...
...small but insignificant world of media chitchat was fluttered last week by Renata Adler's new memoir that takes a brilliant flamethrower to the New Yorker magazine. Adler is a scrupulous, usefully unsettling critic, not to be yoked with casual hit men. She eviscerates so elegantly that her corpses remain standing. But her book and its overheated reception invoke the whole delightful genre of vengeful, venomous, and ultimately purposeless, literary assaults...
...Great Plains (1989) Ian Frazier transformed himself from a supremely hip New Yorker humorist into a serious but never somber chronicler of the American heartland. In On the Rez (Farrar, Straus & Giroux; 311 pages; $25) Frazier entertainingly continues this investigation, although his interest is now concentrated on a specific patch of the wide-open spaces, the Pine Ridge Reservation in southwestern South Dakota, home of the Oglala Sioux. Why this place and these people? While researching Great Plains, Frazier met and became friends with Le War Lance, a Sioux man with colorful if not always credible stories...
...Vast Conspiracy: The Real Story of the Sex Scandal That Nearly Brought Down a President (Random House; 422 pages; $25.95), New Yorker writer Jeffrey Toobin retells the whole tale with gusto and adds some fresh details. One example: a moist-eyed Clinton hails the Travelgate-embattled Hillary in his 1996 State of the Union Address as a "wonderful wife [and] magnificent mother"--and then autographs a copy of the speech as a gift for Monica Lewinsky. Toobin doesn't shy away from the story's tawdriest moments--like the Jones camp's suggestion that Clinton may have undergone surgery...
Until the Ice Cream Man called, I thought I was a phony. Writing, after all, isn't like computer programming or shoe cobbling. Everyone can write, so my job is like being a professional talker or doodler, the latter of which, oddly enough, the New Yorker employs. But when the Ice Cream Man in Greenwich, N.Y., announced I'd won its Name That Ice Cream Flavor contest, I realized I indeed had a skill. My work, delivered under the pseudonym of a local resident, crushed the non-professional competition. I not only deserved my paycheck from TIME, but could probably...