Ashley Alexandra Dupré, the girl who escorted Eliot Spitzer to his downfall, is now gainfully employed. She writes an advice column for the New York Post. Hey, a girl’s gotta make a living. The Post, by the way, is the same publication that splashed a full page photo of the nude but modest-handed Ashley across its cover shortly after the scandal broke, accompanied by the giant headline, “BAD GIRL.”
“Ask me anything about love, sex, and relationships,” says a bespectacled Ashley in the Post’s promotional video for the column. “Take it from me – someone who could have used a little advice in the past.”
If it sounds like I'm being snarky, I'm not. Honestly, I don’t begrudge Ashley the opportunity one little bit. She’s just another in a long line of professional girls left swirling in the muddy wake of the rich and powerful. The real bad guy at the center of the Eliot Spitzer scandal was – well – Eliot Spitzer. The married guy. The powerful guy. The guy with kids. The guy who stood for law and order. The guy who had, in fact, as attorney general of his state, demanded a crackdown on the escorting industry in New York City. And now, in the aftermath of his scandal, he teaches a course on law and public policy as an adjunct faculty member at the City College of New York. He landed on his feet. Why not Ashley?
My insight into the Ashley and Eliot show is informed by Damien Decker, my writing partner on The Act, a forthcoming memoir about his life as a high-paid Manhattan escort. Damien never met Ashley, but he knew her, which is to say he knew lots of girls like her. He was way ahead of the media when the story broke. He knew that Ashley aspired to be a model or something in the performing arts. It turned out she was trying to get a singing career going. He knew she was likely from an upper-middleclass background, as he and many of his female colleagures were, and we watched as, a couple of days into the story, reporters scratched their heads while showing pictures of the million-dollar house she’d lived in before moving to New York. He knew she was using cocaine, the drug that fuels the escorting industry. We waited three days or more for the press to pick up on that detail. When the media reported, its collective brow furrowed in puzzlement, that despite her high fees, Ashley had been homeless for a time, Damien and I were not surprised. He himself had been homeless at the height of his career.
And, by the way, that vice crackdown orchestrated by Spitzer? Damien knew about that ahead of time too. One of his female colleagues had been tipped by a client of hers inside the Spitzer organization.
Escorting ain’t pretty. It’s an industry orbited by drug dealers, bad cops, sexually violent Johns, and, yes, corrupt politicians. It’s a tough business under the best of circumstances. Ashely had to face the worst of it – life under the media microscope, bad jokes by talk show hosts, cruel reviews of her music by talentless DJs, ridicule dressed up as insisive questions by out-of-touch, millionaire “journalists.”
I have a piece of advice for the New York Post’s new advice columnist: You go, Ashley.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
The Years Without Ross
A kind, anonymous reader of this blog reminded me that the James Thurber piece I referred to in my November 21 post was “Preface to a Life,” which is the preface to a collection of his entitled My Life and Hard Times. I read it again after that reminder and loved it just as much as I had when I was a teenager. I recommend it.
My favorite Thurber piece is not an essay, but his memoir, The Years with Ross. It’s about the time he spent working at The New Yorker under the direction of Harold Ross, the magazine’s founding editor. I recall reading that S. J. Perelman, another hero of mine and a New Yorker colleague of Thurber’s, didn’t much care for the book. He said it made the staff of the magazine look like a bunch of amateurs playing at journalism. Oh well. I still loved it. And didn’t everything seem like a bit of a lark at the end of Thurber’s pen? What did Perelman expect?
I’m sure I read the book because my dad had liked it. And I suppose it was after reading it that I became a fan of The New Yorker. I imagined I was reading Harold Ross’s magazine, the same one Thurber and Perelman had worked for. And E. B. White and Alexander Woollcott, Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker. To me there was a quaintness in its pages that made that easy to believe.
At college I read it religiously in the current periodicals room of the library and tried not to laugh out loud. In those pages I learned some things about writing and marveled at a great many writers. I wondered how Mavis Gallant could be so damned prolific (she seemed to be in every third issue). I found Mark Strand, Donald Barthelme, and, just before Tina Brown took the magazine’s helm, Ralph Lombreglia.
When Brown stepped in I lost some of my interest in The New Yorker. There was a lot of noise about how she was going to revamp the thing I loved to make it current – appeal to modern magazine readers – and I didn’t much care for the sound of it. What did I know about the monumental task of keeping a magazine in the black ink, even in those days? What did I know about The New Yorker, for that matter? Not much, as it turns out.
As I took a Google-assisted look back at the magazine, Harold Ross, and James Thurber, I stumbled upon a Time article from 1960. It pointed out that while The New Yorker had tried to continue to be Ross’s, in the nine years since his death it had changed. William Shawn was a different kind of editor who edited a different kind of magazine.
Shawn seems to have been the sort who didn’t want to offend writers by tinkering too much with their material, while Ross had insisted that writers not offend him by blundering around with his vision of The New Yorker, of journalism, of that restless animal called English.
The Time article talks about the importance of The New Yorker’s ad pages in 1960. They’d become as classy and artistic as the editorial content. They brought in money. Under Tina Brown, the magazine became less quaint, more hip, more marketable. Maybe I was too hard on Ms. Brown. And maybe I romanticized Ross and Thurber too much. If the black ink doesn’t flow, magazines die. And, what the heck, if I squint real hard I can still see Harold Ross and his staff in its pages.
My favorite Thurber piece is not an essay, but his memoir, The Years with Ross. It’s about the time he spent working at The New Yorker under the direction of Harold Ross, the magazine’s founding editor. I recall reading that S. J. Perelman, another hero of mine and a New Yorker colleague of Thurber’s, didn’t much care for the book. He said it made the staff of the magazine look like a bunch of amateurs playing at journalism. Oh well. I still loved it. And didn’t everything seem like a bit of a lark at the end of Thurber’s pen? What did Perelman expect?
I’m sure I read the book because my dad had liked it. And I suppose it was after reading it that I became a fan of The New Yorker. I imagined I was reading Harold Ross’s magazine, the same one Thurber and Perelman had worked for. And E. B. White and Alexander Woollcott, Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker. To me there was a quaintness in its pages that made that easy to believe.
At college I read it religiously in the current periodicals room of the library and tried not to laugh out loud. In those pages I learned some things about writing and marveled at a great many writers. I wondered how Mavis Gallant could be so damned prolific (she seemed to be in every third issue). I found Mark Strand, Donald Barthelme, and, just before Tina Brown took the magazine’s helm, Ralph Lombreglia.
When Brown stepped in I lost some of my interest in The New Yorker. There was a lot of noise about how she was going to revamp the thing I loved to make it current – appeal to modern magazine readers – and I didn’t much care for the sound of it. What did I know about the monumental task of keeping a magazine in the black ink, even in those days? What did I know about The New Yorker, for that matter? Not much, as it turns out.
As I took a Google-assisted look back at the magazine, Harold Ross, and James Thurber, I stumbled upon a Time article from 1960. It pointed out that while The New Yorker had tried to continue to be Ross’s, in the nine years since his death it had changed. William Shawn was a different kind of editor who edited a different kind of magazine.
Shawn seems to have been the sort who didn’t want to offend writers by tinkering too much with their material, while Ross had insisted that writers not offend him by blundering around with his vision of The New Yorker, of journalism, of that restless animal called English.
The Time article talks about the importance of The New Yorker’s ad pages in 1960. They’d become as classy and artistic as the editorial content. They brought in money. Under Tina Brown, the magazine became less quaint, more hip, more marketable. Maybe I was too hard on Ms. Brown. And maybe I romanticized Ross and Thurber too much. If the black ink doesn’t flow, magazines die. And, what the heck, if I squint real hard I can still see Harold Ross and his staff in its pages.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Great Literary Blizzards I've Seen
Today I’m writing from Charlottesville, Virginia, a very literate community. In fact this town has more bookstores per capita than any other. At least that’s what Charlottesvillians claim. (They add that second-to-the-last syllable to their title to prevent themselves from being called Charlotte’s Villains – which sounds like the title of a movie the Coen brothers might make.)
A number of writers have lived here over the years including Edgar Allan Poe, Rita Mae Brown, and a little-known novelist named John Grisham.
This month, Charlottesville has another distinction. It’s the home of one of the worst blizzards to hit the Mid-Atlantic region in years. Click on the video link to see it. And Happy Holidays to all!
A number of writers have lived here over the years including Edgar Allan Poe, Rita Mae Brown, and a little-known novelist named John Grisham.
This month, Charlottesville has another distinction. It’s the home of one of the worst blizzards to hit the Mid-Atlantic region in years. Click on the video link to see it. And Happy Holidays to all!
Saturday, November 21, 2009
The Man with One Flip Flop
I was the humor columnist for my high school newspaper, and so James Thurber was a hero of mine. One of my favorite Thurber essays was "Preface to a Life" (the preface to his book, My Life and Hard Times), in which he says that to think writers of short humorous pieces lead amusing lives "is to miss the nature of their dilemma and the dilemma of their nature.” Thurber goes on to list the kinds of misfortunes that befall the humorist.
I thought of that piece one recent morning when I fell into a manhole.
Years ago I used to envision myself writing books for money and living in downtown Winter Park, Florida, a cute, mostly wealthy little neighborhood just north of Orlando. I finally made that dream come true a couple of months ago. Life here is approximately as I imagined it would be, though instead of living in one of the mansions on Interlachen Avenue, I’m in a modest, well worn apartment a block to the west. I don’t write books for that much money.
It’s not just the cuteness of the neighborhood that attracted me. There are practical concerns. In solidarity with Thurber, I’m losing my vision, so I no longer drive. From my new place I can walk to the library, 7-11, writing-related events at Rollins College, monthly meetings of the local Florida Writers Association chapter, and tons of bars, restaurants, and shops, the prices of which remind me that my neighbors are wealthy.
I also have a very good friend a few blocks away, and I usually keep her dog for her when she’s out of town. The pooch bed and breakfast features meals, treats, playtime, and thrice-daily walking tours of the area by the proprietor.
And so it was that on a Wednesday, as the sun rose over the mansions and Mercedes of my new neighborhood, I found myself walking along Morse Avenue past the Amtrak station, not very keen sighted to begin with, still bleary-eyed from sleep at that moment, with a thirteen-pound long-haired Chihuahua-mutt prancing beside me, her ear fringe flowing in the breeze, when the sidewalk opened up beneath me.
They make manhole covers round so that they don’t resemble trapdoors, but this one must have been unseated, because it flipped when I stepped on it. As my right leg sunk into the blackness below, the edge of the disk that had been farthest from me became the edge closest to me. In fact, it was much closer than I would ever have wanted it to be. It slammed into my pelvis with such force that I thought the bone might have been broken, or fractured, or at least diminished with regard to its self-esteem. (But maybe I was just projecting that last notion.)
Second only to the pain was the sensation of my right flip flop separating from my foot. I have the very clear recollection of seeing it tumble toe over heel into the inky abyss, but I’m not sure that’s possible. It may just be one of those “recovered memories” you hear so much about.
When I’d managed to gather a few of my wits, it dawned on me that I was no longer holding onto the dog’s leash. My first instinct was to dive into the manhole after her, but when I looked to my right I found her, frozen in place, wide-eyed at my foolery. Still sitting, I reclaimed the leash, hauled my leg out of the hole, and, civic-minded fellow that I am, adjusted the manhole cover into its proper place.
One of my wealthy neighbors pulled to the curb a few yards down the street. Or maybe she was just a regular person; her car was neither German nor Italian. She backed up to me, her passenger side window slid down, and she asked if I was okay. It was a good question. Infrastructural elements I’d always relied on had failed, and with them, my trust in the workings of the universe. Nevertheless, typical of middle-aged men, I wished to maintain an image of toughness, and I assured her I was fine.
I must not have convinced her because her next questions was, “Do you need help?”
“Uh—I don’t think so,” I said.
Still she wasn’t satisfied. “Do you need help getting up?”
“Uh—I don’t think so.”
Out of questions, but with her brow still tightly knit, she drove on.
I turned to my canine guest, who cocked her head. Like the woman, she seemed doubtful of my ability to carry on. I hoisted myself into a standing position, demonstrating to her, and to myself, that all bones needed to support my weight were intact. Then, cowlicked by my pillow, bludgeoned by a manhole cover, limping from my injury and the absence of my right flip flop, I strolled home through the quaint streets of my pedestrian-friendly neighborhood. I didn’t much care how crazy I looked.
I shall miss that right flip flop of mine. When it fluttered into the sewer, my official Baywatch footwear took with it everything I had in common with the great David Hasselhoff—my cool, my confidence, and my charming, clever smile.
I thought of that piece one recent morning when I fell into a manhole.
Years ago I used to envision myself writing books for money and living in downtown Winter Park, Florida, a cute, mostly wealthy little neighborhood just north of Orlando. I finally made that dream come true a couple of months ago. Life here is approximately as I imagined it would be, though instead of living in one of the mansions on Interlachen Avenue, I’m in a modest, well worn apartment a block to the west. I don’t write books for that much money.
It’s not just the cuteness of the neighborhood that attracted me. There are practical concerns. In solidarity with Thurber, I’m losing my vision, so I no longer drive. From my new place I can walk to the library, 7-11, writing-related events at Rollins College, monthly meetings of the local Florida Writers Association chapter, and tons of bars, restaurants, and shops, the prices of which remind me that my neighbors are wealthy.
I also have a very good friend a few blocks away, and I usually keep her dog for her when she’s out of town. The pooch bed and breakfast features meals, treats, playtime, and thrice-daily walking tours of the area by the proprietor.
And so it was that on a Wednesday, as the sun rose over the mansions and Mercedes of my new neighborhood, I found myself walking along Morse Avenue past the Amtrak station, not very keen sighted to begin with, still bleary-eyed from sleep at that moment, with a thirteen-pound long-haired Chihuahua-mutt prancing beside me, her ear fringe flowing in the breeze, when the sidewalk opened up beneath me.
They make manhole covers round so that they don’t resemble trapdoors, but this one must have been unseated, because it flipped when I stepped on it. As my right leg sunk into the blackness below, the edge of the disk that had been farthest from me became the edge closest to me. In fact, it was much closer than I would ever have wanted it to be. It slammed into my pelvis with such force that I thought the bone might have been broken, or fractured, or at least diminished with regard to its self-esteem. (But maybe I was just projecting that last notion.)
Second only to the pain was the sensation of my right flip flop separating from my foot. I have the very clear recollection of seeing it tumble toe over heel into the inky abyss, but I’m not sure that’s possible. It may just be one of those “recovered memories” you hear so much about.
When I’d managed to gather a few of my wits, it dawned on me that I was no longer holding onto the dog’s leash. My first instinct was to dive into the manhole after her, but when I looked to my right I found her, frozen in place, wide-eyed at my foolery. Still sitting, I reclaimed the leash, hauled my leg out of the hole, and, civic-minded fellow that I am, adjusted the manhole cover into its proper place.
One of my wealthy neighbors pulled to the curb a few yards down the street. Or maybe she was just a regular person; her car was neither German nor Italian. She backed up to me, her passenger side window slid down, and she asked if I was okay. It was a good question. Infrastructural elements I’d always relied on had failed, and with them, my trust in the workings of the universe. Nevertheless, typical of middle-aged men, I wished to maintain an image of toughness, and I assured her I was fine.
I must not have convinced her because her next questions was, “Do you need help?”
“Uh—I don’t think so,” I said.
Still she wasn’t satisfied. “Do you need help getting up?”
“Uh—I don’t think so.”
Out of questions, but with her brow still tightly knit, she drove on.
I turned to my canine guest, who cocked her head. Like the woman, she seemed doubtful of my ability to carry on. I hoisted myself into a standing position, demonstrating to her, and to myself, that all bones needed to support my weight were intact. Then, cowlicked by my pillow, bludgeoned by a manhole cover, limping from my injury and the absence of my right flip flop, I strolled home through the quaint streets of my pedestrian-friendly neighborhood. I didn’t much care how crazy I looked.
I shall miss that right flip flop of mine. When it fluttered into the sewer, my official Baywatch footwear took with it everything I had in common with the great David Hasselhoff—my cool, my confidence, and my charming, clever smile.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
"Writing is a hypnotic activity."
GalleyCat posted an interesting item yesterday about how hypnotist Maggie Dubris helps writers overcome writer’s block. You can find it here.
I thought it was interesting, partly because I’m a writer who has been blocked a time or two, and partly because, years ago, my dad had a book on self-hypnosis which seemed to impress him. Dad was smarter than the average bear, so I put a lot of stock in what he thought. He was an aerospace engineer, very logical, analytical, but during World War II, before anybody’d heard of aerospace, he was just a guy in the Navy.
I can tell by some of the letters he wrote to Mom back then (which I didn’t discover until long after both his Navy days and his aerospace days) that Dad had done some self-investigating and wanted to do more. He wrote of hypnosis as if he felt it might be the key to unlocking some hidden potential in him. That surprised me. When I was old enough to understand what he did, I thought of Dad as Mr. Guidance and Control – focused entirely on the task of escaping Earth’s atmosphere rather than peering deeply inward. He had let such pursuits go by the wayside, I guess, as his engineering career took off. And certainly the greatest pioneering adventure of the 1960’s held his attention pretty firmly. (Well – there was I Love Lucy, but who didn’t take a break from life for that one.)
I pilfered the self-hypnosis book from Dad when I was a teenager. (That was the kind of reading material Dad had instead of Playboy.) I tried it, got a kick out of it, but moved it to the back burner when the demands of the outside world started to pile up. (Like father, like son.)
Maybe I’ll give it another shot. I wouldn’t mind having access to some hidden writing potential.
I thought it was interesting, partly because I’m a writer who has been blocked a time or two, and partly because, years ago, my dad had a book on self-hypnosis which seemed to impress him. Dad was smarter than the average bear, so I put a lot of stock in what he thought. He was an aerospace engineer, very logical, analytical, but during World War II, before anybody’d heard of aerospace, he was just a guy in the Navy.
I can tell by some of the letters he wrote to Mom back then (which I didn’t discover until long after both his Navy days and his aerospace days) that Dad had done some self-investigating and wanted to do more. He wrote of hypnosis as if he felt it might be the key to unlocking some hidden potential in him. That surprised me. When I was old enough to understand what he did, I thought of Dad as Mr. Guidance and Control – focused entirely on the task of escaping Earth’s atmosphere rather than peering deeply inward. He had let such pursuits go by the wayside, I guess, as his engineering career took off. And certainly the greatest pioneering adventure of the 1960’s held his attention pretty firmly. (Well – there was I Love Lucy, but who didn’t take a break from life for that one.)
I pilfered the self-hypnosis book from Dad when I was a teenager. (That was the kind of reading material Dad had instead of Playboy.) I tried it, got a kick out of it, but moved it to the back burner when the demands of the outside world started to pile up. (Like father, like son.)
Maybe I’ll give it another shot. I wouldn’t mind having access to some hidden writing potential.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The phone rings, and...
As a writer for hire and developmental editor (one who shepherds a book through various stages of development and into the hands of an agent) I get calls from a wide variety of people. Some of them pretty out there. People like adult entertainers, ex-biker gang members, and ex-mob guys. The conversation always starts the same way: “I’ve led a really interesting life. It’s going to make a great book. I just need somebody to help me write it.” Sometimes, all three of those statements are true. Sometimes none of them is.
So. The phone rings one morning and it’s a young guy calling from New York. His name’s Damien Decker. He’s on a cell phone. The connection’s not too good. I’m having a hard time hearing him. He says what everybody says when they call. I ask him what the story’s about. He tells me he worked as a male escort in Manhattan. I’m thinking, how many of those are there? This can’t possible be that unusual or interesting. But I ask him to tell me about it.
And the story he tells me is not anything like the story I’m expecting to hear.
He talks for five minutes and I say, “I’m in.”
He’s a Scandinavian black man who ended up flat broke in Manhattan and got into escorting. Completely by accident he stumbled into a specialty niche in the industry. It’s called Mandingo – black on white shows for white male clients. But the thing is, he didn’t understand it. In the beginning, he didn’t get the American cultural and sexual taboo involved. Along the way he had to deal with his own history of being the oldest of three black kids who were the only non-Vikings growing up in a small Scandinavian town. A lot of racism involved there.
And he became one of the highest paid straight male escorts in Manhattan.
I pitched it to an agent at the Florida Writers Association Conference recently. Got a pretty good reception. We have high hopes.
So. The phone rings one morning and it’s a young guy calling from New York. His name’s Damien Decker. He’s on a cell phone. The connection’s not too good. I’m having a hard time hearing him. He says what everybody says when they call. I ask him what the story’s about. He tells me he worked as a male escort in Manhattan. I’m thinking, how many of those are there? This can’t possible be that unusual or interesting. But I ask him to tell me about it.
And the story he tells me is not anything like the story I’m expecting to hear.
He talks for five minutes and I say, “I’m in.”
He’s a Scandinavian black man who ended up flat broke in Manhattan and got into escorting. Completely by accident he stumbled into a specialty niche in the industry. It’s called Mandingo – black on white shows for white male clients. But the thing is, he didn’t understand it. In the beginning, he didn’t get the American cultural and sexual taboo involved. Along the way he had to deal with his own history of being the oldest of three black kids who were the only non-Vikings growing up in a small Scandinavian town. A lot of racism involved there.
And he became one of the highest paid straight male escorts in Manhattan.
I pitched it to an agent at the Florida Writers Association Conference recently. Got a pretty good reception. We have high hopes.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
As if I have time to blog!
I hereby swear off the use of the word swamped to describe how much work I have to do. I’m sure my friends have gotten sick of hearing me say it. And it tastes stale in my mouth. Swamped, of course, is an emphatic. It means extremely busy. But I’ve actually begun to add emphasis to it by saying something like, “I’m just so swamped.” The so really sells it. For a time. But recently I’ve sensed that people doubt me. Tom is swamped. I mean, I did have coffee with him the other day. He can’t be so swamped. Hell, now he’s even blogging!
One of my favorite stories about creative work has to do with a cartoonist. I don't remember which one. If this rings a bell, let me know who I'm talking about. (I'll probably get twenty-two different names.) The guy was sitting in an easy chair in a room by himself, staring into space. A friend walked in and asked him what he was doing. “Working,” said the cartoonist.
That’s the great (and terrible) thing about being self-employed in a creative endeavor. Sometimes when you claim to be working, you seem to be doing nothing. And people look at you askance. Truth is, a writer for hire usually has several plates spinning. It’s tough to convince people that when you’re staring into space you might actually be in panic mode, spinning plates wildly. Out of the corner of your eye, you see one start to wobble. You pivot, reach for it, hands trembling, sweat pouring down your face.
Metaphorically.
I mean, I do sit in a comfy desk chair, usually reclined, sometimes rocking.
So this is the beginning of my blog. Now I’m even more swa – extremely busy. See, extremely busy just doesn’t do it. I either have to find a new way to express it or retire.
One of my favorite stories about creative work has to do with a cartoonist. I don't remember which one. If this rings a bell, let me know who I'm talking about. (I'll probably get twenty-two different names.) The guy was sitting in an easy chair in a room by himself, staring into space. A friend walked in and asked him what he was doing. “Working,” said the cartoonist.
That’s the great (and terrible) thing about being self-employed in a creative endeavor. Sometimes when you claim to be working, you seem to be doing nothing. And people look at you askance. Truth is, a writer for hire usually has several plates spinning. It’s tough to convince people that when you’re staring into space you might actually be in panic mode, spinning plates wildly. Out of the corner of your eye, you see one start to wobble. You pivot, reach for it, hands trembling, sweat pouring down your face.
Metaphorically.
I mean, I do sit in a comfy desk chair, usually reclined, sometimes rocking.
So this is the beginning of my blog. Now I’m even more swa – extremely busy. See, extremely busy just doesn’t do it. I either have to find a new way to express it or retire.
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