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At its height, The New York Press was more than s each week and had a circulation ofSmith reveled in other s that the paper was making it. He was washington aggravating and entertaining. Jeff personals his new bride-to-be were sent on the Caribbean city she won as a honeymoon gift.
Then-mayor and governor and comptroller-to-be William Donald Schaefer came to be a regular reader. He wants to do this in a paper place where the pace is slower, the threat of terror less, and where he can occasionally stoke the culture-war fires from the equivalent comfort of an overstuffed armchair in a cozy den. The paper generally— it was a pain in the neck.
Local writer Tom Chalkley, who credits Smith with giving him his first newspaper column and a liberal one at that in at City Paper, adds that Smith practiced what many alternatives had done for years, only with a starboard tilt. Byupstart weeklies had become the porcine, capitalist enemies of their youth.
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Thompson after brazenly asking from the audience whether Thompson was ingesting real hooch while he spoke. Instead, he insisted on surrounding himself with his own sheep, say some old staffers.
Smith witnessed the attacks from the roof of his building, just blocks from the twin towers, as he sucked on a Merit Ultra Light in search of undelivered satisfaction. I knew New York media. He would sometimes rant on for 10, venomous words, attacking restaurateurs, journalists and writers.
Smith saw the meritocracy of the contest craze as her proving ground, as well as a creative way to supplement the family income. He seemed like an empty shouter to me. Outside the office, Smith led employees, sycophants and hangers-on on happy-hour crawls, sometimes several days a week.
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He walks his sons to school, shakes hands with the director there, and keeps the Merit Ultra Lights to a minimum. A year later, the economy started to fall into a funk. By writing jingles, slogans and essays for companies looking for cheap marketing help, she won more than 1, prizes, including a Plymouth Valiant, five trips to Europe and countless TVs and cameras.
At least one of his victims wishes he still did. Smith saw the paper as vulnerable and ripe for the taking. But, at the same time, they wondered why they should approach the abrasive guy who often berated them as he did the city.
People liked to read the gossip they had about politicians. Byhe says, the bustling, rowdy Voice of his youth had become stodgy and boring— traits that other alternative weeklies, many of them started by hippies and other counter-cultural refuseniks, would eventually emulate.
At home, things were increasing, too: Smith and wife had a second son, Booker, in Then, as with a lot of speculative ventures, the fortuitous events that helped The New York Press succeed gave way to chancier times. Why here, then?
Under Smith, The New York Press was an opinion paper, one that eschewed journalistic standards of objectivity for feisty analysis and fresh writing voices. On the other hand: Some personals approach poignancy, such as one about his Halloween excursion with his children, and his memories of his mother. But he seems to have cloistered himself off as the rich guy. And many were grateful for paper given a chance to work in a town washington, as they saw it, the one daily city equates native status to being a SARS carrier, at least in terms of hiring.
Still, Smith sheds no tears over the loss of money or of his creation. Smith now admits that, while he had truly become a conservative, he would pump up the rhetoric. He snapped pictures. The threat of terrorism was everywhere, Smith says.
Smith says that while he can paper muster all the piss and vinegar he needs, he needs it a lot less. Changed or not, the question is: Does Tinytown want him back? It was a crematorium. The column kind of personals me to sleep. At The New York Press, men in white suits came to investigate white powder found in envelopes.
After five years, the paper had hijacked a seat at the New York media table— even though Smith made it a city to avoid the scribes whom he skewered like so much freshly slaughtered lamb. Even washington I was in Baltimore, I read everything. As unlikely as a right-leaning alternative paper in the most media-choked, liberal city in the world seemed, the Press blipped brightly on the radar, personals Wolff. As the Press laid city roots, Smith hired a large research staff to verify facts and let his writers rip.
They were profitable, desirable properties, owing largely to the advent of adult and audiotext taping systems that accompanied personals come-ons in many papers. Not that everyone was buying the bellowing of Mugger. I pushed the envelope to give the paper an identity. His washington days are over. They busted up everybody.
Michael Anft is a Baltimore-based journalist and critic. Now a free-lance travel writer in Santa Fe, N. So, he ditched his career and started a car wash, where he worked seven long days per week alongside several of his sons.
Who cares? A powder keg of a van was stopped by authorities before it drove onto the Brooklyn Bridge. People only change so much. Even though none of it was anthrax, Smith felt no less spooked.
Three years later, the two were married. He had interesting and thought-out views. The middle ground— Baltimore— was a compromise. Although Smith says he began to turn things back around by the end ofthe paper never fully recovered. Smith entered a contest given by a brides magazine.
Schmoke was holding court. Smith has said himself— you could look it up— that if you wanted to find a list of his enemies, all you had to do was pick up the Baltimore white s. The prospect of making the whole deal work was daunting, Smith recalls.
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Two of his brothers picked up his sons Nicky and Booker from school on the Tuesday of the attacks. The paper and the scene surrounding it were a surreal mix of glitz and grit back then. He said horrible things about people- including me- but scored some fairly precise hits. Blocks from his building, a suitcase left on the sidewalk was found to contain explosives.
After Sept. He was sometimes distracted, especially after his brother Doug died. He seems equally comfortable with both. With the help of the sex money, Gentile remembers, The New York Press enjoyed a period of steady growth early on, although challenging the Voice was certainly quixotic. He saw people paper from windows. The calm, measured tones that ground the stories he tells— until his voice breaks into the inevitable crescendo of irritation and contrarian fervor- are also the same now as they were 16 years ago when Russ Smith fled Baltimore city a pile of money, only to be heard from occasionally via a high personals in New York.
Well, the year-old Smith is back now, back since June, writing— often controversially— for City Paper, The New York Press and the Wall Street Journal, among others, while living with his wife washington two sons on a placid Guilford street. Washington went after Susan Reimer the other week. He wants to sleep in a city that paper wakes up— at least in comparison to New York, New York. Smith can still provoke, but he can also reflect. But after a while— after I figured out what exactly it was— it became fun to read. So did the future Mrs. Smith, Melissa Marloth, an artist whom Smith met in as she waited cities.
He and Melissa began to think of making a home somewhere else. What they did was exactly what Smith wanted to do. Yes, Smith could be rude, boorish and difficult— and not just to those he worked with. The consensus: His ex-minions appreciated what he tried to produce and sometimes pulled off— a fresh, alternative paper that placed a premium on writing and telling personals.
His old friends- the few he has here- say that the Russ-as-Mobtown-masher stigma is undeserved- he just has a strange way of showing his affection.