seems new york writers and editors are, to say the least, not well-liked by the monstrous worm-ridden beast they call home. new york press has just released their list of the 50 most loathsome new yorkers, which has suddenly inspired me to think twice about trying to work as a writer in new york. journalists stand their own amongst the predictable politinazis, debutantes and sports stars that have made the hateful grade. here's a slice to whet your hunger (i guess our very own gorgon, suzanne boyd, didnt make enough of an impression):
2. Maer Roshan
Editor, Radar
When we had hair and idealism, we published a zine poised to alter the magazine paradigm. We were self-styled journalistic saviors, shooting poison-filled barbs at staid culture. To our shock, readers bought it. They clamored to contribute. They bought subscriptions. Then you know what happened? We folded because our bottom line was redder than Tara Reid's nostrils after a Friday-night bender.
8. Graydon Carter
Editor, Vanity Fair
Carter, an affable and self-deprecating sort whose writings still retain traces of the charmingly dry humor of his Spy days, is, personality-wise, a clear exception to the monsters populating this list. What makes him loathsome is the perverse ideological calculus of his career arc, which represents a common Hogarthian progression among right-thinking, politically astute New York progressives: Spend your 20s shaking fists, spend your 50s licking boots.
12.Adam Gopnik
Writer, The New Yorker
We will never forget that immediately following the Sept. 11 attacks, Gopnik wrote, in all seriousness, that the smell of the burnt bodies and the dust and the fire "blew uptown on Wednesday night, and is not entirely horrible from a reasonable distance - almost like the smell of smoked mozzarella, a smell of the bubble time." We smelled something different in Gopnik's piece: the stink of a bubble brain fried in the havoc.
13. Andrea Peyser
New York Post columnist
The Post's Columnist of the Year aka Manhattan's Favorite Harpy, The Post's Madame Defarge, a designated hater and a clueless jackass - lives in a cartoon world in which a thick black line neatly separates the Good (Israel, firefighters, dead soldiers) from the Bad (liberals, student protesters, most women). She isn't loathsome on account of her pedestrian prose and predictable opinions, however. She's here for the stink of desperation that rises every time she tries to convince herself she's anything more than Cindy Adams on the perpetual rag, a third-rate Steve Dunleavy in old-lady panties.
39. Karen Schwartz
Writer, New York Sun
It is difficult to imagine why anyone would read Karen Schwartz's weekly horrorshow in New York's boutique retro-mini-broadsheet, the New York Sun, which shivers alone on the far right. A more fitting column for the Sun would be excerpts from the blog of an evil kibbutzer; or a free-market serial killer; or even a crazed U.N. janitor who knows where all the bodies are buried in Turtle Bay. Instead the Sun offers up the very model of insipid, navel-gazing, post-Yuppie garbage the likes of which this town hasn't seen since Jay McInerney's stint as Odeon publicist.
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