Wednesday, December 05, 2012
It Was The New Yorker With Hot Sauce
I wasn’t planning on holding back. It’s harder than it used to be to fall in love with a magazine, especially now that they’re collapsing around us like the virus-stricken in “Contagion.” When it does happen, you should raise your hand.
Things, however, got weird. In July Mr. Smirnoff was fired after being accused of sexual harassment. Also, he admitted that he gave alcohol to under-age interns. I can’t say whether these actions were closer to peccadilloes or closer to something much worse.
But I couldn’t see publishing my assessment any longer. It was a time to hang fire.