1979: Notes of the Newsday Summer Intern

I was an intern for the summers of 1978 and 1979 at Newsday, then based in Garden City, NY. Afterward I agreed to respond to questions from a woman collecting perspectives on summer internships. Here are my answers, along with parenthetical additions on what I recall from those memorable summers far away from my hometown of Mission, Texas, where I had been a reporter-photographer in the summers of 1976 and 1977 for the Upper Valley Progress. 

Section 1. I became aware of the internship at Career Services, an office of Princeton that served as a center for graduate school, job and internship information. I was working there and looking for a summer job in the fall of 1977 when I found an internship listing (put out by Haverford perhaps but it had a green cover) that had a section on journalism, my career interest. I had been disqualified from most of them because either they did not accept students who were to enter their junior year or they were non-paying in nature. Newsday's program was listed and it was set up to catch my interest, i.e., it paid and it had a section for students between their sophomore and junior years. I applied for the intern clerk position, which has as part of it an automatic acceptance for reporting position the following summer if you do an acceptable job as a clerk.

Ace feature writer, 1979.

Section 2. In terms of skills, I have been active in journalism for a long time. I was editor of my high school paper for two years, worked on my town weekly during my senior year in high school and for two summers, and have been a reporter for my college paper [The Daily Princetonian]. To be accepted, you have to be able to write, obviously, and to type. As part of the applicant's package, you must write a news article from a page of news notes, submit a biographical statement and a short statement on your interest in journalism. Each piece is written to a specified length, so prolixity should be avoided. Spelling and vocabulary proficiency are also good, not for the work you do as a clerk, but to get the acceptance itself, because obviously the editors are looking for people who, in their second year, will be dependable reporters. As for my own submissions, I did a personal information article in the form of a feature story about myself, which was fun to do because I could fabricate quotes (but not details). I polished up my journalism statement a good bit, and generally tried to be as neat and professional as possible.

Section 3. To be accepted, try to develop a solid background in journalism skills, and I assume you should work extra hard on the application; given dozens of applicants whose clips of missions are essentially indistinguishable (except for features), editors will probably look to the applications themselves as indicators of strengths and weaknesses. I never discussed the application process with Mr. Bookbinder [Bernie Bookbinder, who oversaw the internship program], nor did I see other applications, so I could not give first-hand information on the actual selection process. Nonetheless, it seems that a strong background in many phases of writing, and care and honesty and presentation, will serve you best. One Princetonian writer, who found out I had been accepted for the clerk internship while he had been rejected, asked me who I “knew.” I knew absolutely nobody before applying, and knew nothing about Newsday, either. Connections were not a factor in any cases that I knew of, although I have my suspicions about one person. (You need two recommendations, so applicants should get them from the people who are familiar with their writing. I got mine from Princeton English professors.)

Section 4. What I did. Good question. This must be answered in two parts, because I did very different tasks in the two summers I worked at Newsday.

During the summer of 1978, as a clerk, I performed the low-level dog work that must be done at any big newspaper – sorting and opening mail, typing photo requests, fetching clips from the library, sending messages to Newsday bureaus. The heart of it all, in terms of the most time-consuming, necessary and interesting / annoying part of the job, is working on the City Desk, as we say, where clerks work the telephone lines. Some calls can be routed to other departments, or to reporters, but in most cases the calls are from people wanting to relay information to the paper.

Some of the calls, perhaps between 5 and 10%, are actually newsworthy and might interest the editors. Some are from drunks, some are angry and most want to get something off their chest. The procedure I followed was to get the information from the person in capsule form, write it down along with the person's name and phone number. This should be done as quickly as possible, because the phones are always ringing or something else needs to be done. if the call seemed important, I would immediately give the information to an editor. if not, I would collect a batch of calls and type up the information and give it to an editor. This is prudent because you can always say you gave the editors the information if it gets lost once it reaches their desk. Also, since editors are usually quite busy, it lets them get to the information at their convenience. 

Offices in Garden City.

[Lacking a car, I rode a bike from a room I was renting in a house in Garden City to Newsday’s building near the Roosevelt Field Mall. The summer was a lonely one away from my family in Texas. My father, who lived in Nyack, NY, helped me move in but our relationship was always very stressful and that included the summer.]

One rule: Never NEVER be discourteous on the phone, however infuriating the idiots are on that call, and you do get many calls from people who think their grandson’s bar mitzvah in Plainview, for example, is something everybody on Long Island is dying to find out about. One bad episode is enough to spoil a reader, who will in turn tell his or her friends what creeps work at Newsday. It is easy to develop a “Fort Apache” mentality when you handle 150 calls during a 7-hour day shift, but you have to fight it. Most of the people calling have probably never dealt with a newspaper before, and it might have taken them several days to develop the nerve to contact the mighty Newsday. It often happens that the people are very frustrated and want advice, and to the extent possible I would help them, short of urging them to take a hike. Many want consumer help, so I would tell them to contact local consumer affairs agencies, or legal aid societies. If we were the last resort, I would tell them I would take the information and give it to the editors and nothing else, since I can never promise any kind of response. You become quite adept at getting people to hang up, and doing several things simultaneously.

Last summer I also worked several weeks as the night copy clerk, which was a quite different job. I spent most of the night at a visual display terminal (VDT, a TV screen with a typewriter attached to it) and moved articles around that were electronically sent to my station. I also typed up the next day's indices and made copies of layouts and pictures. All the work is concentrated in a small area, and consequently does not entail the frenzied running-about required of clerks. Also, the phones, except for the night copy editors, are answered by other clerks.

Back when copy moved among 
departments through pneumatic tubes, 1978

[I rode my bike through the dark summer streets of Garden City to reach the office. I never had a problem, and my shift ended after the sun came up. In the down moments I enjoyed reading other newspapers owned by the Times-Mirror Company, like the Dallas Times Herald and the Los Angeles Times, along with the early editions of the New York papers.]

This summer I was a reporter in the Part II, or features pull-out, section of the paper. I requested this assignment, and then requested once the summer began to be put into the specialty section. I wrote articles for the money and health theme pages, and for the last 3 weeks wrote articles for an energy supplement to appear in September. I also did one personality profile that appeared in the front section of Part II. [I profiled Barbara Rowes, a contributor to People Magazine who had written “The Book of Quotes” and a biography of Jefferson Airplane singer Grace Slick.]

[After a lot of dithering about transportation for my job as a feature writer in 1979, I finally bought a rickety green AMC Hornet station wagon from a Princeton grad student for $500. I somehow got it registered in Trenton and drove out to Old Bethpage in Nassau County, where I lived with a Newsday librarian, Lillian Marx. We had a warm relationship that I remember fondly. At summer’s end, I surprised her with a copy of Sophie’s Choice, which she was eager to read.]

Section 5. The work as a clerk was at times frustrating, when the phones were ringing, the editors were yelling and the mail was stacked up by the boxes. But I had the feeling that I had really contributed to the operations. The other intern on the Nassau desk, where we were working at Newsday’s main office in Garden City, wrote three articles near the end of the summer, but I wrote none. It was not a requirement to write as a clerk, although of course it is fun to do so. It’s not your usual summer job, because of the pace and the intrinsic smallness of the individual jobs. The main benefit is the pay, and the chance to return as a reporter. I enjoyed being a clerk because it gave me the opportunity to see a big newspaper up close, and to meet the people involved in its operation. At times I thought the summer would have been better spent, in a professional sense, had I gotten a job writing at a paper, but the chance to return to Newsday and write was a powerful incentive. You don't have to apply for the second year, when the competition for positions is more intense.

A day in the life of an intern, sorting the mail.

There is a fair amount of frustration during the first week or two as a clerk because there are many individual tasks to be mastered. The mailboxes are only in an approximate order according to sections. Mail arrives for people who have long since left the paper, and it takes time to separate the current from past staffers. I was initially gun-shy around the phones, but with practice this disappears, as does nervousness around the forbidding VDT. I personally like the pace of the place, but everything is carried forth on a professional level, and people should realize that the work should be taken seriously.

Editor Howie Schneider and reporter Allison Mitchell, 1978

[Answering phones on the National Desk had its historic surprises. In 1978, Allen Weinstein published The Hiss-Chambers Case, which argued that Alger Hiss was, in fact, a Soviet spy. Newsday must have been covering the book’s assertions and this national replay of the early history of the Cold War, because one day I picked up the phone and had this conversation:

Me: Newsday national desk, how can I help you?

Caller: I’d like to speak with Arnold Abrams [I think that was the request. Abrams was a reporter on the high-profile National Desk near where I sat.]

Me: May I ask who is calling?

Caller: This is Alger Hiss.

Me: One moment please (puts caller on hold). Arnie, it’s Alger Hiss calling for you on line 1!

Arnie: Oh come on!

Me: No, really, it’s Alger Hiss!

Convinced by my youthful confidence, Arnie took the call. The rest is history.]

As a reporter, I was left to my own devices. Half of my articles were self-generated; that is, I would present my editor with ideas and he would indicate the ones he would like me to develop. This I would do, and after about a week of calls and writing I would submit the piece, which usually received fairly light editing, although this was only in my case. My articles were not written under deadline, unlike the cityside, as we say, reporters, so I can concentrate on thoroughness and “style” in a relaxed setting. Sometimes I was assigned articles. The work on the energy supplement was also assigned. Since this is essentially what I plan to do, in one form or another, with my professional life, I enjoyed it. The only part that bothered me was that none of my articles appeared until the fourth week. This is due, however, to the fact that Part II works on a long lead time and articles generally do not appear until about two weeks after they are submitted. 

Section 6. I always liked the working environment at Newsday, because you're really involved in keeping things going. The other clerks and writers and editors are, for the great majority, interesting, loquacious individuals who are quite helpful. I was sorry to leave my reporting job.

Section 7. As for supervisors, I spent most of my time last summer working with other clerks, rather than under the direction of the woman who had control over them, the secretary of the Nassau Editor. As a reporter, I had an editor to whom I sent my articles, and who would consult with me when he had questions about them. 

It was not an intense, day-to-day sort of professional relationship simply because I sent the stories in at wide intervals, and rarely needed direction when researching them. Mr. [Kevin] Lahart, once I had been around him for a week and became acclimated to the working environment, was a competent, friendly man who I came to like a great deal by summer’s end. Had I been a regular news reporter, circumstances might have been different, because I gravitate toward feature, rather than news, writing, and my stories might have needed heavier editing than they received in Part II. This, however, is speculation. 

[That summer of 1979 had plenty of news. I limited my driving due to the energy crisis. Near the end of my internship, Yankee catcher Thurman Munson was killed when his crashed his Cessna Citation while practicing landings at an airport in Ohio on August 2.

Meanwhile, I made energetic but fruitless efforts to create a social life. I recorded my misadventures in the essay "Fear and Loathing on the Long Island Singles Scene," which appeared in the Daily Princetonian on September 12, 1979 and was reprinted in my 2012 memoir, "A Kosher Dating Odyssey."

I did better hanging out with Larry, a Princeton classmate who was an intern reporter for Newsday in Queens. We saw the movie "The In-Laws" and heard The Tubes perform in Central Park, performing their classics "White Punks on Dope" and "Don't Touch Me There."]

Section 8. Other than getting approval for the initial assignment of a story, I was totally on my own in shaping the material. They could send it back and make me fiddle with the lead, as sometimes happened, but the essential work was mine, and I appreciated the freedom I was given, especially the freedom to follow up on my own story suggestions. The clerks have certain jobs they do as a matter of course, although sometimes editors will give them a job to do. They work under a different sort of freedom.

Section 9. As mentioned, three of my six articles were self-initiated, which editors like because it speaks of creativity aggressiveness, etc., etc. Even if eight of 10 article ideas are rejected, the two that click are all that you need to keep busy. story ideas are crucial in the business, because they bring individual experience and perception to the process, an editor might not have a story on an interesting topic simply because his or her ideas going directions apart from that idea through suggestions these blind spots are filled in also, Mr. Bookbinder request that all interns let him know what they think about the program when the summer ends, and this is a good way to have operation input into its operation.

Section 10. As a clerk I overcome came my essential hesitancy to do things with telephones. I never like to call people for stories, which can be a big stumbling block for a potential reporter. I got so I could leap right in, flip from line to line, hit the hold button like a pro and generally perform competently in the job. but since my life's ambition is hardly to be a receptionist, the skills that counted came during the summer as a reporter. I had been writing for newspapers for years, but never at this rarified a level, and with professional editors. It was not so much a matter of learning new skills, but of learning or discovering new attitudes toward my abilities, and finding that I do indeed have the ability to be a professional journalist or writer at a very high level of the profession. The clips and experience of having worked at the 10th largest paper in the country are of incalculable value, certainly more impressive than if I had continued to write for my hometown weekly, the Upper Valley Progress. The contacts I have made are also of great importance, plugging me right into the New York scene, or so I hope.

Section 11. For advice see the answer to the second and third questions applicants should act accordingly.

Section 12. My internship, as you might have guessed was highly successful. I was good enough and lucky enough to get an internship in my field of interest. Because they are available in a wide range of fields, with many types of requirements, I would urge people to try for them. Certainly the ones in journalism are the subject of hot competition by talented people. People should not make a few applications and then pray, because many talented writers get rejected. The trick is, however, to send out enough applications to get accepted someplace, given whatever pay and geographic limits you may place for yourself. not everybody can work at the Washington Post, for example, but small dailies often take college students, and weekly papers can be very helpful as the starting point. I began in my weekly, covering city council, features and other articles, although this was a permanent position rather than an internship. Such jobs provide the real thing: writing experience in real-life situations that, with dedication, hustle and talent, can be parlayed into much better situations.

This advice is general in nature, and would apply to students interested in working in government, medicine and any other field they might want to enter. Since I am knowledgeable on the subject of journalism internships, this advice definitely applies to this field. They can be either good or bad, depending on the amount of work you put into them--a cliched thought, perhaps, but applicable, anyway. They can give you valuable contacts, sometimes a good salary, and usually exposure to different situations and people than what you are accustomed to This might involve relocations for the summer (and in my case for this summer, the harrowing experience of buying my first used car) and exposure to a new environment, but this can be exhilarating in and of its own right. As for advice, I would recommend that people talk to students who have participated in the programs to get an idea of the requirements and types of work and also, if possible, to visit the work site. 

My AMC Hornet, American Iron of 1979.

The summer ended and I returned to Princeton and my spot as the Sports Features Editor of the Daily Princetonian. To my surprise, I got a job as a reporter-researcher at Forbes magazine in New York, starting a week after graduation. I moved to Brooklyn and donated the Hornet to Goodwill as soon as possible. I didn't have another car until I moved to Connecticut in 1991. My social opportunities increased to an acceptably intense level of highs and lows during my life in New York in the 1980s.

As a freelance writer in New York in the 1980s, I wrote an article for the Daily News on specialized business libraries after connecting with Brian Moss, a Newsday editor who had moved to the Daily News. Later, I wrote an article for Advertising Age about Newsday's highly talented team of illustrators, which lent the paper a stylish edge.

I left journalism after being laid off by a trade magazine publisher in July 1995. Still, I like to think blogging is a lot like journalism: I write what I want and add the illustrations. And, like journalism, it doesn't pay much.

I continue to look back on Newsday as a great experience and have all my clips.

Read all about it. 

September of 1977: McAllen to Princeton by Bus

The Internet as we know it now did not exist in the 1970s. Had it, I'm sure I would have been a teen blogger with my essays. I recently unearthed an essay I wrote about a bus trip from McAllen, Texas to Princeton, New Jersey at the start of my sophomore year at Princeton. I wrote this travelogue a month later and I can't recall who I hoped would publish it. Here it is, with bracketed commentary written 48 years later to fill in details, along with photos I took on that long, strange trip. 

The self-styled king of the road shook himself from his cramped daze. St. Louis—1:30 a.m., a Sunday in September—bled into the mages of other dormant city scenes. His pillow a crown and a camera his scepter, the royal disposition had been tiring since the Arkansas breakdown 12 hours earlier. 

Memorial Stadium, Austin, for football practice.

 

Sunday morning indeed; unshaven, the last shower lost in sweat and nutrition replaced by candy bars devoured in Springfield, Missouri. Four hours there; he spent his last change for a phone call to tell Kay he would be in St. Louis late. (Late? He never gave her a definite time of arrival.) 

[Kay was a Mission friend attending college in Illinois.]

Probably San Antonio. 

 

Time killed by scribbling notes in the back of a science-fiction novel: the men's room panhandler, a newspaper reread six times, the bus station's mute doyenne and her seizure at his feet. 

Now he was deposited in a new town. Did Kay get the message? One never knows about unnamed messengers. A glance through burning eyes revealed no familiar faces. So, he thought, x-more hours added to the 30 he had survived since leaving Austin Friday evening. In which case he needed a paper, some more candy, of course a picture in a mirror or "Hi, Van! Welcome to St. Louis." or . . . 

[I had visited my brother, a freshman at the University of Texas at Austin. His high-rise dorm, Jester, stunned me with its modernity, a contrast to the spare 19th century accommodations of Princeton's dorms.]

 

Waiting for bus repairs, Rogers, Arkansas Sept. 6

He could have cried on her neck. Instead, he smiled. After all, he was touching base again. 

That summer I could never fully explain, even to myself, why I wanted to take the bus from South Texas to central New Jersey. [I had spent the summer as a reporter-photographer of my hometown paper, the Upper Valley Progress. That summer marked the last time I ever lived in Mission.] Sitting in the McAllen, Texas, terminal at midnight, the only certainties were the ticket, the two weeks before classes began, a solitary personality suitable for bus travel and an understanding mother willing to lug trunks to the nearest UPS office. I nursed no urge to discover America à la Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper, at least not consciously. The airlines would be faster, the dubious ones said—but after a half-dozen flights east, the blue womb bored me. The speed and convenience were equaled only by the unreality and emotional jaggedness of the medium. 

Self-portrait in Rogers, Arkansas, Sept. 6

 

The sense of transformation was lost in the jump from one corner of the country to another. The endpoints of departure and arrival remained abrupt and unconnected. While hostesses proffered sodas, the fresh memories of home always struggled with plans for the academic months, with my mind as the battleground. In the efficient yet frosty air journeys I could never grasp the ripping force of what was happening. 

Which should not be a surprise, because nothing was happening. I became the animation that linked two sets of circumstances, nothing if not the Nietzschean rope between, pardon the metaphorical simplification, plant and phantom. 

Soon after leaving McAllen, this traveler sensed a change in the tempo of time. Reading was impossible and talk with strangers unappealing. How should one fill those enormous spaces of time between stopovers in Austin and Illinois before the final destination? The disruption of my normal day-night cycle suggested the need for a new mental process. Initially I pondered the recent. Summer incidents, though, quickly staled in the darkness. So the psychic construction began somewhere near Falfurrias. The end product, if ever there was one, did not hinge on analysis or the picky little manipulations that characterize the civil creature. 

Instead, I observed, felt experienced the sensation of travel. It was a new approach for one accustomed to constant thought. In my typical definition of usefulness, much of the trip was "wasted." I learned to look beneath the appearance of inaction and thus view myself as a personality and body in flux, a more dynamic notion that that of an intellect in suspended animation. I joined the other people traveling by bus—and felt a rare oneness with them. The endless miles smoothed the transition between home and college with empty strips of time that demanded no artificial calendar slots. The future could develop at its own leisure, rather than be thrust into consciousness before the vacation lost its intensity. 

Twenty-four hours before St. Louis, during a Dallas layover, I was first touched by the pulse of the slow travel, which shapes fascinating patterns from the utterly mundane. 

[The trip from Dallas to St. Louis took even longer than expected after the bus broke down in Rogers, Arkansas. On the upside, the bus passed through Muskogee, Oklahoma, which thrilled me because I knew all about the town thanks to Merle Haggard classic 1969 song "Okie From Muskogee."]

I felt tired, rumpled. A hodge-podge of personal belongings surrounded my seat, never leaving my sight, rarely my touch. The shifting juncture of different fates and lives came to exhilarate There the strangers waited and ignored each other, all unknowns somehow bound to each other by the shared movement.

That bind, tenuous and universal, affects me more than the sterile hustle of any airport. 

2 a.m., Sept. 8, Columbus, Ohio, still awake.

 

Air travel always unfolded like a row of dominos—get on the plane, fly, arrive, change, repeat, grab luggage and get to campus. Very nice, rather dull. I will admit that the unexpected at 30,000 feet can be at least disturbing, occasionally fatal. Given my light attitude, I found bus lapses amusing and enlightening. I studied the streets of Rogers, Arkansas, from the main intersection and felt quite at ease. I knew my destination even if I lacked information as to my precise location and time of arrival. 

In Pittsburgh, I discovered that schedules are written by people who can err. Sorry, the man said (remarkably cheerful at 6 a.m.), no morning buses to Philadelphia. So it took me another three hours to filter through New York City. Stoicism ruled when three was added to the 60 preceding it. 

Stopovers with friends and relatives provided more than decent food and a soft bed. For me, they became touchstone to stability and the past. Thus, the presence of the familiar, even in a vague form, adds special meaning to arrivals and departures. The sight of Kay, a true deus ex machina, revived thoughts of ourselves as two different people years before. 

But a more haunting and symbolic familiarity is preserved on the first picture I took during the trip. I will never even know their names. My own family left the station long before the bus did. I did find surrogates to watch the vehicle pull away, pull me away. The picture of them loses some natural drama through the distance between that knot of working-class Chicanos and the camera. Yet their expressions mirror their thoughts, however deeply they submerge the details. 

Sullen stares toward the bus door mark the faces of the old man and his wife; they look lost, as if someone precious was leaving again, lost into the night. The younger woman, -perhaps their daughter, seems almost wistful—does she remember something about the traveler? Departures always do that. Their emotions I find recognizable, maybe because I have often caused them. For every

The journey begins: Midnight in McAllen, Texas

 

[The essay ends at this point; it must be missing pages. This final section describing the McAllen bus station comes at the very beginning of the journey. I finally arrived in Princeton, where I lived in a six-man suite in the 1938 Dorm, now demolished.]

Relocation Anxiety Update

April wasn’t the cruelest month but it was one marked by a high level of stress for me. After living with my partner Naomi for 10 years in her home in Westchester County, N.Y., we relocated to a condo we bought together in a Boston suburb.

The downsizing and packing began after we bought the place in December. At the end we had 200 tightly taped containers, ranging in size from shoeboxes to weighty trunks, each bearing color-coded location labels and notations on the contents ("books" was especially popular).

Before the movers delivered everything in mid-April, my tendency to let the bats fly out of my belfry intensified as I worried about lurking disasters. We used Noah’s Ark Moving and Storage, which I had hired four times before as I bounced around Fairfield County, Connecticut and to Westchester County. These guys know their stuff and did an estimate based on a video walkthrough of the house. Still, the more we packed, the more I fretted that the 26-foot truck wouldn’t hold everything. I had zero evidence for this beyond my fevered imagination. Maybe we would need a gigantic 18-wheeler? Should we arrange a back-up plan for local storage? I was spinning like a top.

Letting go

Finally, I decided to take the 12-step approach: Let go and let God, or, in this case, let go and let Noah. End result: what looked like an enormous collection filled about half the truck. I moved on a Monday with medicated-to-the-gills cats Jerry and Basil, then on Tuesday the movers hauled boxes and furniture into the condo. Naomi arrived on Wednesday and the serious settling in began. New furniture arrived on Thursday and the rooms took shape.

Delivery done, I needed something new on which to obsess. Where were my atorvastatin pills to control high cholesterol? I know I packed them, I could visualize them in the little sack from CVS. My supply was running low and I had to find them. I tore through boxes for my office and, bathroom cabinet supplies and checked boxes before I flattened them. Did I lose them in the car? I found lots of socks, toothpaste and floss but no atorvastatin.

Every box I ripped open was like a medical version of Cracker Jacks. When would I find the pharmaceutical prize? Naomi suggested it might be in the last box I packed, as I was keeping the medicine out—so I wouldn’t misplace it. With my pill supply shrinking by the day, I dug through boxes like a fox terrier. Finally, slicing packing tape with a letter opener, I opened a shoebox and inside found mostly religious items: a Torah volume, a book of Psalms, yamulkes—and the precious container of atorvastatin. The roller coaster of anxiety slid to a stop, or to be more emotionally accurate, a pause.

Cancel culture in the condo

What’s next on the relocation anxiety agenda? The condo comes pimped out with GE appliances—fridge, washer/dryer, microwave, dishwasher. A few mornings ago the washer suddenly lurched to life, rumbling and flashing the phrased “CANCELLED.” I frantically pushed the power button and that didn’t turn it off. The owners’ manual didn’t tell me anything. Even though the water didn’t come on, I still had visions of a biblical flood. I rapidly searched for  “GE washer gives a ‘cancelled’ message.” Well, this is a common problem with some GE washers, although it usually happens when the machine is washing. After a few minutes the message vanishes. That’s what happened.

So this sent me to Reddit and the Better Business Bureau. There I found comments that made my hair stand on end. Could those horror stories of unfixable machines and baffled repairmen apply to our new environment, here in the house of GE? Do I dare use the dishwasher of doom?

The washer kicked on again in the same way. I’ll ask around the condo if anybody else has had this mysterious occurrence. My exhausting quest for problems faded, for now. Maybe I’ll just let go and see what happens. Every day brings a different challenge but, based on experience, I somehow cope.

Down and out at the RMV

In fact, no sooner did I feel relaxed than another "lost" episode began. Naomi and went to the nearby Register of Motor Vehicles to switch to Massachusetts plates and licenses. We had gathered all the necessary paperwork, including insurance coverage from a new carrier. When we finally reached a representative behind a bank teller-like clear partition, Naomi's paperwork sailed through and she got her Bay State plates. The representative shook her head at my auto title; it showed a major bank as a lien holder. I couldn't register the car and get a title if the car had a lien against it.

"But I paid that loan off years ago," I bleated. I could register but the title would be sent to the bank to certify the lien had been cleared. She said I should have got a letter from the bank at the point where I paid the auto loan off.

My stomach fell down to the sub-basement of the RMV building. I would have put the letter in a bulging car folder that held repair bills and other paperwork. But I couldn't remember seeing the folder when I was packing. When had I last seen it? It had been in a two-level file cabinet under my home office desk. I would have stored that with important folders.

Back home, I relived the atorvastatin routine, ripping open boxes to find this sizeable folder. Nothing. I plunged into a garage storage area. I had parked plenty of folders in the trunks, tied with twine to keep them together, but no car folder. I checked every trunk and box twice. I found literary output going back 40-50 years, evidence of obsessive self-chronicling, so that was all fun to find about totally useless at the RMV.

My sense that I had misplaced or lost the folder in the months before the move became terribly real. I couldn't put that unsettling sense of absence out of mind. Digging through the trunks and boxes, I could picture the folder's former location and even found folders I kept in the same drawer. Thee folder would no doubt have had the lien release letter and it had dropped off the face of the earth. 

I called the dealership where I bought my car and had it serviced and spoke with a woman who sounded familiar with the issue of the lost lien letter. She said somebody from the finance department would call me back. While that gave me a sliver of hope, I still woke up at 4 a.m. wondering what would happen next.

I called the dealership back the next morning and learned it no longer dealt with the major bank that held the lien and didn't have anybody I could call. The best she could do was direct me to the New York State DMV to get a new title. That was another dead end because I needed to produce the lien letter.

Next step: I called the bank, which I imagined as a forbidding bureaucracy that would brush off my little problem. An online search turned up a title department, so I called the number and soon was talking to an angel in human form who listened empathetically and looked up my account. I had indeed paid off the loan balance off on April 29, 2019--exactly six years before my call. We both chuckled over that. She said the lien release letter had gone out then and I could get either a copy or a new version. Since the RMV clerk said I had to provide a "wet" version, a letter actually signed, I told her I needed a fresh one. That would take a week or so, then another week for the mailing. I asked about expediting the delivery, could they just charge the fee to my bank credit card?

That wasn't an option but I could give them a UPS or FedEx account number and they could send it that way. By day's end I signed up with UPS. 

So, while I can't say the episode is over until I get the wet letter and dash down to the RMV, I do feel immensely relieved. Later that day I had a "how'd we do" email from the bank and I gave the representative all 10's for her "empathetic, confident and highly informed guidance." Credit where credit's due, I say.

The search for the lost folder continues. The notion that I threw it away while packing makes zero sense. It may be gone or it may be in some nook or cranny I have yet to uncover. 

Is this the last lost episode of the 2025 relocation season? I can't predict anything. I thought the atorvastatin hunt was bad enough, but this was much more serious. 

These regrettable but common cycles remind me of the joke about the Jewish telegram: “Start worrying. Details to follow.”

The Roots of Obsession

Next month I’ll be leaving Katonah for a Boston suburb, moving from a house to a condo. Besides a lot of books, I’m bringing personal papers: journals, clips from my journalism days, letters, research files. I’m obsessed with what I call self-chronicling.

This enthusiasm began with a little booklet with envelopes for grades 1-12, called “School Days: Records and Memories.” My mother bought this when I started at William Jennings Bryan Elementary School in Mission, Texas.

The first grade envelope shows a photo of me looking rumpled and dazed with a bump on my head. I must have walked into a tree. The envelope includes my report card, a Red Cross card certifying me as a beginner in swimming, two stapled pages with an explanation of my score on the Metropolitan Achievement Test, and a photo of my teacher and me taken on my birthday.

As the years rolled by, the envelopes thickened with achievement tests, honor roll listings, photos, event programs. Envelopes started tearing out of the booklet, so from the 7^th grade on I stuffed the ephemera into manilla envelopes.

Why did I save so much, and still keep it? The older I got the more I depended on academic achievement as a keystone of my identity. The honor rolls and certificates validated me since, otherwise, as I felt like an outsider. My self-image was fragile; I wrote my height and weight on the 5^th grade envelope: 60 inches tall, weight 110-115, with the note “Gosh I’m heavy (I don’t look it).” Have I ever not felt that way? Still, journaling captured my emerging sense of living in history.

A turning point came in the 6^th grade, spring of 1970. Students wrote an autobiography. I did so by putting pages in a green binder with metal tabs to hold the pages together. That fall I moved to junior high. I had wanted to start a journal and now I saw how. I added page to the autobiography and wrote my first entry on September 15, 1970. In parallel to ongoing journal, I saved whatever struck my fancy over the decades: report cards, notes stuck into my locker, a ticket stub from a Dallas Cowboys game, every issue of the newspapers and magazines where I had an article, every letter from my mother and other relatives, with carbon copies of letters I typed to them. Newspapers from presidential elections and events like 9/11. A folder of bad job reviews, now those make for fun reading. Morning-after notes from stormy 1980s romances.

I lugged this pile around from Texas to Brooklyn to Connecticut to Katonah. Fearing I would soon be auditioning for “Hoarders,” I began shrinking the stack a year ago knowing we’d eventually move. I donated hometown newspapers to the local historical museum, sold or gave away 80 percent of my record collection, sold posters from the Soviet Union. I even donated coffee mugs celebrating George Bush’s 2001 inauguration, gifts from a Texas friend.

Anyway, the accumulation mostly stopped in the 1990s. No more vinyl albums, no more journalism clips, digital photos replaced prints. I stopped buying newspapers covering historic events; email made letters obsolete. My book interests are so specific (Judaism and the Soviet Union) that I rarely buy anything. The people to whom I wrote letters died. 

I’m still thinking of “why.” The chronicling since the 1960s constantly informs my creative output. while I jettison the bulkiest materials (all those back issues of Advertising Age, Video Store and the Princeton Alumni Weekly!), I will always keep the most personal collections. Letters to and Mom and relatives were a weekly report of our lives. And I think about future generations. I didn’t know much about my parents or grandparents, but I’m creating a way for people of the 22^nd century to know something of my life and times. The unending chronicles show how I see history as it happened. I’ve already planned to donate trunks and binders bursting with millions of words to Princeton and let the librarians decide what it means.

Best of all, I don’t have to remember anything since I recorded the big moments and saved letters and emails. I’ll never run short of material.  

Aunt Charlotte's Daybook, 1982

My Aunt Charlotte, my mother's sister, loved to write letters. I've saved all of them she sent me in the 1980s and 1990s, until she passed away in 1997. Her daughter Linda has forwarded to me photos and other materials, including her 1982 day by day journal. As a dedicated chronicler myself, I was eager to see how she recorded her life. I've delayed a close read of the journal because my cancer-stricken mother lived with Aunt Charlotte from 1981 her death in January 12, 1984; I dreaded entries that touched on my mother's suffering. 

But since today is January 1, 2025, I decided this marks the time to start reading Aunt Charlotte's daily notes, which are geared to events rather than musings on life. 

And football. Like all good Texans, she keenly appreciated the sport, especially back when the Dallas Cowboys were riding high as America's Team. And Aunt Charlotte lived in Tyler, Texas, east of Dallas, practically in the Cowboys' back yard.

Here's what was on her mind on January 1-3:

January 1: Texas beat Alabama in the Cotton Bowl. Texas came from behind to win 14-12.

January 2: The Cowboys beat Tampa Bay in a playoff game 38-0. Linda invited us over for supper. San Francisco Chargers [I think she meant San Diego] beat the Miami Dolphins in another playoff game. At the close of the reg. game the score was 38 all. The final score was 41-38.

January 3: Giants lost to LA Rams. Cincinnati beat Buffalo. Went to S.S. [Sunday School at Green Acres Baptist Church] 

I'll post updates of interest as I find them, straight from Aunt Charlotte to you.  

Searching for Connection to the World to Come

Who has ever heard a message from the dead, had a near death experience, or had vivid memories of a past life? Ever played with a Ouiji board? Consulted mediums? Joined a seance, saw a ghost? 

None of these interested me other than near-death experiences. Teen Ouiji board parties were as close as I got. But last month’sopen mic involved a graveyard and since then other datapoints made me consider links between the living and the dead. For example, I read the book of Deuteronomy’s warning about occult practices:

You shall not learn to do like the abominations of those nations. There shall not be found among you a soothsayer, one who interprets omens, or a sorcerer.

Well, that settles that. But at the same time I was also reading a book from the discard pile at the Katonah Village Library, Surviving Death: A Journalist Investigates Evidence for an Afterlife, by Leslie Kean.

With its carefully documented chapters on channeling past lives, mediumships, poltergeists, moving objects and materializations, Kean’s book talked in terms of highly credible evidence about the reality of the World to Come and other matters. The book opens with cases of two boys who from a very early age identified details from past lives, one from a pilot killed in World War II, the other a Hollywood talent agent. She uses real names and photos of the boys, and the men whose lives they channeled.

Kean also wrote about near death experiences where people saw light, heard music and encountered loved ones.

If this wasn’t enough to stir my imagination, I saw the final episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm’s season 5, “The End.” Larry David donates a kidney to comedian Richard Lewis, then months later is dying in a hospital room. His wife, father, friends and a rabbi gather around him. As he expires, they start bickering over money owed and other matters. While comic, the scenes closely track real near-death experiences. He flatlines, then finds himself flying through light and clouds to heaven, emerging with a full head of hair. Kindly robed guides (played by Dustin Hoffman and Sasha Baron Cohen) meet him. The World to Come looks ready for him, with legendary Ben Hogan eager to play golf with him with the news that Marilyn Monroe was a big fan of Seinfeld and is eager to meet him No need for bathrooms! Then he encounters his querulous mother Adele, played perfectly by Bea Arthur.

But David’s earthly behavior patterns get the better of him. His guides decide he’s not ready for Heaven and he reluctantly slips back into his body. The machines start beeping with life. even as Marilyn Monroe appears to sigh, “I really love your sense of humor.” The flatlining machines start beeping to signal a fluttering return to life, everybody is stunned, and Larry lives to speak his mind in many more seasons. While the intent is humor, David’s foray into and out of the World to Come closely tracks other near-death experiences. Dialogue with his wife Cheryl (played by Cheryl Hines a/k/a Mrs. Robert F. Kenney Jr.) shows the profound impact of such a glimpse of the other side:

Larry: “What a thing, huh?”

Cheryl: “Yeah. How do you feel? Do you feel different after all this?”

Larry: “Yeah, I mean, come on, I’m a changed man. I’m a completely different person.”

[Series spoiler: He doesn’t change at all.]

This all comes as we approach the Jewish observance of Yom Kippur, starting on October 12. That involves the Yizkor service, remembering those who have gone before us. I post the names of relatives in my synagogue’s Yizkor book. Would I like to hear from them, my parents, grandparents, friends gone too soon? Sure, but I’m not seeking them out with all the techniques so well discussed in Surviving Death.

Instead, I’m thinking about what the 19^th century writer George Eliot, pen name of Mary Ann Evans, wrote:

“Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence.”

I once wrote a science fiction story based on this idea. A cop killer was sent to a penal colony on the Moon. His punishment: he wouldn’t die until everybody forgot him. But people kept remembering him. He truly had a life sentence.

So if the dead aren’t talking to me even in my dreams, I’ll just talk to them. They may be there, in a realm surrounding us but beyond our reach, glimpsed hazily in shadows and during a blink of our eyes. Or do our realms interact? At the Yizkor service I’ll remember, I’ll tell stories and write stories, I’ll say their names. In doing so, I keep them alive. The questions we all have about near death, after death, the World to Come—we all discover the answers in the end. And that may just be the beginning.

"The Price You Pay:" A novel with a kick of reality

 I recently read the novel The Price You Pay, by Jim Fusilli. I knew of him through his music writing for The Wall Street Journal but I hadn't read any of the novels he's written since 2001's Closing Time. I've now corrected that with his latest novel.

It tells the story of Mickey Wright Jr., part-time business major at St. Peter's College in Jersey City, N.J., sleep-deprived worker at an Italian bakery and a liquor store, and target of his ill-tempered and violent father, a widower and cop with the Jersey City PD. Early in the book, his father forces Mickey to get a "real job" working at a trucking company in Union City with the Teamsters, starting in the office as a "router-typist." 

But Mickey soon learns that the office job is just the start of a position that involves much, much more. The Price You Pay has been described as a coming-of-age story, a thriller, and a crime novel, and it brings all those elements. What made it memorable for me is Fusilli's total grasp of the time and the blue-collar union/mob milieu that's utterly foreign to me. But not to Fusilli; according to Wikipedia, "While in college, Fusilli joined the Teamsters Local 560 as a clerk at Smith Transport, headquartered in Hoboken." And that first-hand experience shines through in the details of work at a transport company, along with descriptions of Jersey City and adjacent towns. He shows the mean streets with no romantic coloring.

Fusilli grabs readers by the elbow and serves as a Hudson County Dante escorting us as Mickey Wright struggles against his seemingly unstoppable descent through the circles of deceit, larceny, political corruption, family violence and murder. He does so with prose that always aims to describe and move the story along, without navel-gazing. This passage about the approach to his new employer, Impact Trucking, captures Fusilli's pitiless eye (and olfactory abilities):

Drawing near on his drive from the Heights, Micky was jostled by potholes, then greeted by the odor of gasoline and motor oil and the sound of grinding gears and barking men. He watched as incoming trucks, their steel-gray bodies sullied by grime, zipped in backwards to their stations while the semis required pinpoint dance-like maneuvers to precisely position them for loading.

The corrupting process started early, with Mickey recruited to lie to wives and others calling about drivers. Here's how it goes:

One late afternoon, Joey Baldessaro Jr., a Jersey City-based driver, pulled Mickey aside. He said, "Listen, if my wife calls, you tell her I ain't in yet."

Baldessaro was in his early 30s; like most of the drivers, he was fit and rough around the edges, but had had a kind of charm and an easy laugh. His father was a driver too; Joey Sr. gave his son his good looks but was taciturn and often abrupt. It was said both men had quick tempers.

"What?" Joey Jr. said.

"I'm not comfortable with that," Mickey told him.

"Yeah, well," Joey Jr. said. "Pretend."

Soon, many of the Jersey City-based drivers counted on him for cover. "He's not in yet, Mrs. Flannery," Mickey said when she called looking for her husband, though Flannery dumped his load three hours ago. He lied to Tommy Malzone's daughter, telling her he wasn't sure where her father was when he knew Malzone was buying rounds and getting sloppy at Rudy's, spending cash he won when he hit the number. 

Will Mickey escape the fate of a violent path? Can his toil in a bakery pay off? And what about Debbie Olsen, the young woman he meets in class and goes on a date with at the Metropolitan Museum of Art? Get your hands on The Price to Pay and find out. 

June 1980: A New Graduate's Welcome to the Real World at Forbes Magazine

June always takes me back to my graduation from Princeton in 1980. Do my fledgling steps in the job market hold any lessons for the class of 2024? Read on. 

I was an economics major planning a journalism career. To that end, I mailed out resumes hoping that summer newspaper jobs and my economics degree might stir some interest. I had also passed the Foreign Service exam, so global public service beckoned as a career option. As my classmates talked about travel plans, I thought a summer of backpacking in Europe could be educational. The Peace Corps intrigued me, but my practical-minded mother back in Mission, Texas, warned me, "Van, if you go into the Peace Corps, I'll make you pay me back every dime I ever sent to Princeton." And she was serious about that, too. So that option was off the table. 

None of these pleasant fantasies happened. The job search plan worked – catastrophically well. Instead of landing in Baton Rouge or Corpus Christi, I parlayed the Princeton connection, writing samples and a gift for good job interviews into a reporter-researcher job at Forbes Magazine, "the Capitalist Tool." The catch: I had to start a week after I graduated. Visions of travel vanished as, buckling under maternal pressure to get a job, I accepted the offer of a $12,000 yearly salary and scrambled to find a place to live. I plunged into the world of work and New York living with absolutely no break. By mid-June I was in a sports coat and tie, humping along in the sweltering A train from the Hoyt-Schermerhorn station in Brooklyn to West 4th Street in Manhattan wondering what I had gotten myself into. 

On the surface, an entry-level job like this made sense, a way to build on my skills. And it would have – but not at Forbes. Back then it was a twice-monthly magazine with a fearsome reputation for hard-hitting stories and a delight at squeezing the gonads of executives. Insecure, inexperienced, anxious and wildly nonconfrontational, I struggled like a guppy among piranhas in the Forbes fishbowl.  

Problems began immediately. My journals from 1980 are full of anxiety and pep talks to myself as I tried to get the rhythm of checking financial stories that blended arcane (to me) business concepts with punchy opinions and quotes that sources often did not want to appear in print. As I recall, fact-checking required guile and mental gymnastics, since we could not read quotes directly back to sources, only paraphrase them. That meant sources didn’t know exactly what we wanted them to confirm, and they couldn't retract or alter a quote. 

Trying to look like I know what I'm doing, 1980.

Forbes veterans felt exasperation with my bumbling. For example, senior editor Bob Flaherty dubbed one hot-shot Wall Street investor a “cult figure.” So I dutifully underlined the phrase in red ink on the draft as a fact to check. When I called the guru, I  asked him, “So are you really a cult figure?” That didn’t help my reputation at all. 

Indeed, I knew from the beginning I was out of my league. From my journal, June 26, 1980: 

Work is hell. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I am checking my 1^st story and it is a nightmare. . . I’m afraid I’ll get run over when it hits the press. My manager is very helpful, but my lack of attention and knowledge is hopelessly frustrating. 

And on July 5:

Work has been an experience. Fact-checking is much more difficult than I expected. My 1^st story was one by Howard on REITS [real estate investment trusts]. I am sweating blood about some things I underlined but did not check. I think the spellings are all OK, but I’m just not 100% sure. I’ve heard that capital punishment is preferable to the penalties affixed to misspellings that checkers let past. I just have to wait. 

I don’t know how exactly to evaluate the experience so far. The people are OK and the education is good, but I can’t help feel a Sword of Damocles is over my head. The thought of getting fired has of course entered my head, and it is possible after the 3-month probation I might be let go. If that happens I could either try the Journal of Commerce or Jewish publications. If they want me, fine. If not, it won’t be the end of the world. I could have used a vacation. Now I know why I didn’t write to the biz mags—I must have thought something like this would come up. I wonder what I was thinking about when I started this search. I suppose I did the right thing, given what I wanted to do and the market. Ideally I could work through next May, try to get a position someplace else, then take the summer off. I think my considerable strains of late will be alleviated when the July 21 issue comes out w/o pain, and when I finally develop a social life. Last Friday I attended services at The Village Temple and they made me feel quite comfy. As I was leaving the rabbi said, “We could use a few more single men here, for these young women.” 

By August, the alarm bells rang loud enough for the head of the research department to warn me about my lagging performance. While other new reporter-researchers were getting articles published, I hesitated to write anything, until I finally broke into print with short newsmaker items. 

August 14: 

My manager called me into her cubicle and told me, essentially, I had the next three weeks to get my act together, by the end of the three month probation period. It’s gotten so nobody has a great urge to work with me, which probably accounts for the revolving door series of people I’ve worked with. I’m too slow and unsure and just don’t seem to be jelling with the system. 

By December I had a talking-to that left me in tears, and I should have cut my losses. Forbes management could have done that also, but I remained. These days, I’d tell my younger self to bail out, get a Eurail Pass and don’t look back. Use your post-college youth on more rewarding activities if you clearly see a mismatch and no future at a job. However, that path would have required accepting that I had failed in the sort of high-status job worthy of a Princeton grad. Given my utter inability to make that mental leap, I couldn’t slink back to Mission, Texas with my tail between my legs, or stay in New York without a job. Instead, I soldiered on the best I could. 

Hovering over the entire operation at 60 Fifth Avenue was the merry and mischievous warlord, Malcolm Forbes. He was an outsized, unique character who garnered massive press coverage. Reporter-researchers dreaded the ritual of the “townhouse luncheon,” when Malcolm and his sales executives would wine and dine a corporate chieftain who probably had been the subject of a major article. Malcolm and the CEO would then sweep into the research department with a copy of the fact-checked manuscript. The CEO would review the manuscript with the trapped reporter-researcher for errors and demand explanations for anything that looked wrong, while Malcolm relished the fun. 

My turn as the townhouse luncheon dessert finally came. A compassionate and alert senior reporter-researcher, Gerry, warned me that Anthony O’Reilly, CEO of H. J. Heinz Co. (the ketchup company), would be the honored guest and peruse a story I checked. O’Reilly’s host that day was actually Malcolm's son Steve Forbes, fellow Princetonian, flat-tax advocate and presidential candidate in 1996 and 2000. O’Reilly looked at the manuscript, didn’t see anything amiss, and moved on. I collapsed in relief at my desk, head resting on my IBM Selectric typewriter, and took the rest of the afternoon off. 

I began to think I was getting a handle on the job. How wrong I was. By the spring, soon after signing the lease for my first apartment at 131 Amity Street in Brooklyn, my manager took me out for a lunch at a Chinese restaurant in Greenwich Village and told me to find another job. She didn't set a specific timeframe for leaving. I thought I was getting a promotion, that's how deluded I was. Then I found myself involved in a libel suit for my involvement in a story where a touchy executive was referred to as “unsavory.” And then my mother had a fatal bone cancer diagnosis. And then I had a tempestuous romance with Joanne, an older woman (as in, she was 30 years old) from the Upper West Side who I met at Congregation Emunath Israel on West 23rd Street. Those tumultuous weeks in 1981 swamped my boat in every possible way but I stayed afloat.

Aghast and ashamed at this reversal of my post-college trajectory, I never could tell recruiters why I wanted to leave the plum job at Forbes. I finally became an editor at a meek trade magazine, Quick Frozen Foods, a monthly published by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich (HBJ). This job was a better fit for my skillset at the time, and it paid 50 percent more than Forbes. I did solid work there, with a fondness for articles on kosher food regulation in New York and the foodservice department at Sing Sing Prison. 

Two years later, HBJ moved its New York magazines to Cleveland. I decided to stay in town and try freelancing. My career arc plummeted from Princeton to Forbes to Quick Frozen Foods to an unemployment line in downtown Brooklyn in three years. My mother died before I ever held another full-time job.

On the upside, I lived by my wits as a freelancer, which resulted in four years of enjoyable writing at publications like Advertising Age and Whole Life Times, the freedom to finally travel the world, fast times with the invaluable National Writers Union and eventually a job as the East Coast Bureau Chief of Video Store, a magazine then owned by HBJ.  

May 29, 1981: 

Do I want to remain in this type of media work? Reporters, who demand such lofty ethics from others, often ply their trade under the sleaziest of styles. That’s the contradiction of the job. I keep mine high but I’m not often in the touchy situation. I love writing, I find increasing evidence that I do it well, so I can certainly pursue it through other channels than kick-ass reporting. . . . There’s something with my name on it out there and I just need to find it.   

June 26, 1981: 

I’m leaving Forbes. Wednesday I got an offer from HBJ’s QFF. I am bored beyond belief, which means of course it’s time to clean my apartment.

I never read Forbes after I left, although I did buy the March 18, 1990 issue of OutWeek magazine, which appeared just after Malcolm's February 24 death, with the headline "The Secret Gay Life of Malcolm Forbes." The Forbes Building at 60 Fifth Avenue, with its ground-floor museum of toy soldiers and Fabergé eggs, forever loomed over me like Sauron’s Dark Tower in The Lord of the Rings. I imagined Malcolm’s all-seeing eye scouring the sidewalk in search of hapless hobbits like me to torment after townhouse luncheons with muscular orcs. To this day, over 40 years later, I never, ever walk in front of the (former) Forbes building, lest its haunted shadow fall over me. Instead, I cross to the other side of Fifth Avenue to keep the wraiths of memory at bay. 

Forbes magazine has struggled in the digital age, relocated to Jersey City in 2014 and has been tossed from one owner to another. I wish it well in these traumatic times for publishing. Looking back, the pressure-cooker environment of the reporter-researcher department incubated tremendously talented people who went on to careers in journalism, publishing, Wall Street and law. Life in the editorial trenches created durable bonds and "Front Page" style humor. One writer groused after a particularly trying week, "I need a brain D&C." I grasped the humor in that after looking up D&C in a dictionary.

Management kept me on staff far longer than they had any reason to do so, a humane gesture that resulted in me staying in New York rather than relocating. I've been treated much more brutally elsewhere. In 2006, the accounting firm KPMG laid off almost its entire proposal team, including me, in a stunning four-minute listen-only conference call. 

At Forbes, I learned the value of fact-checking and wrote some of my favorite all-time stories for the “Personal Affairs” section in the back of the book. One was about executive portraits. My very last story, “Private Eyes for Inc.’s,” appearing in the July 6, 1981, issue, covered corporate investigators. Malcolm himself wrote “Fascinating story—MF” on a draft copy, which I still have. That moment gave me great satisfaction, tangible proof that sometimes I knew what I was doing.

I stayed in trade magazines until 1995, when Video Store laid me off after eight years. A year later I landed in firmwide communications at Price Waterhouse, the accounting firm now known as PwC. I continue to work in accounting as a proposal writer, a niche that ideally matches my skills and personality. Why do I like proposal writing? Because it involves hard deadlines, high stakes, a respect for facts and a minimum of fluff, clear and persuasive writing and, as I once explained, “I like to win.” 

As unlikely as it would have sounded to me in 1980, I’ve evolved from the anxiety-wracked 20-something fact-checker to the informed, experienced and unflappable (outwardly, anyway) proposal pro who confidently guides teams through the pursuit process and spins out persuasive copy as fast as I can type. AI's got nothing on me. 

My advice for new grads: Dare to dream, but if you fail, learn from the experience, don’t be humiliated by it. Savor the wins, build skills and be flexible. Use The Elements of Style by Strunk and White to learn to spell correctly, use proper grammar and write in a jargon-free and logical style—that will give you an unbeatable advantage over AI and the semi-literate competition in the job market. If Plan A doesn’t work, go to Plan B, don’t recycle Plan A. You'll be working a long time, so if you want to see the world, get that Eurail Pass and start packing.

And if the Peace Corps meets your vibe, then join the Peace Corps and find out what life has in store for you. Let that desire be the road you take. 

Validation from the Boss.