MuseLetter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought; especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
Almost 60 years ago while at Manhattan College (now Manhattan University), the Jasper Journal was launched as a counterpoint to the official campus newspaper, the Quadrangle. I was asked if I would do a cartoon for this upstart publication (I also designed the masthead for it).
No specs were given as to its subject matter, but as it was just before St. Patrick's Day, I opted for a simple, non-controversial, toast to the Irish (who did make up a dominant part of a then all-male student body). And if there was anything humorous in this little doodle, perhaps it had to do with the juxtaposition of an Italian surname with a leprechaun. As someone would later point out to me.
Illustrated 1966
It came out of an embracing of all things Irish, which had been seeded at an early age. A time when I first heard it said, and never have of any other nationality or culture on their special days, "Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day." Many taking to the wearing of the green in its honor. Which happened to be the color of my alma mater as well.
The Irish association and identification with this beautiful color, began as a backdrop on a banner of the Lordship of Ireland under the rule of the King of England between 1177 and 1542." (Source: AI)
My introduction to Irishness, came by way of St. James parochial school. Within a parish run by Irish priests. It was on these premises that Alfred E. Smith, one-time Governor of New York and first Catholic nominee for the Presidency of the United States, received his only formal education. Think of it. Just grade school.
Son of an Irish-American mother and an Italian-American father, (though he strongly identified with his Irish roots, particularly after his father died when he was 12), he was raised on the Lower East Side near the Brooklyn Bridge, i.e. "my" neighborhood. He was a legendary local hero, and regardless of nationality, we all looked up to him with pride.
He lost that election in 1928, and it would be another 32 years before another Irishman, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, would become the first Catholic president.
Along with my awareness of Smith, was that of St. Patrick's Day with that grand parade. A hallmark of New York City, it was first held on March 17,1762, making it the oldest and one of the largest of its kind in the world. And while we were never in attendance (our mainly blue-collar parents at work and their kids at school), "St. Paddy's" was celebrated big time with an annual dance and stage show the weekend prior. Either at Webster Hall on 11th Street, an historically preserved landmark, or in the parish's church auditorium.
This was a big event replete with spirited performances given by the St. James parishioners. Who invariably had imbibed before going on. The highlight of which, was a dance routine featuring a dour man—on all but this one day of the year—the neighborhood undertaker, John McCaffrey, and a substantially sized, effervescent, city government employee, Flossy Mulligan. Can you conceive of two better Irish names, attached to two such disparate people, engaging in a soft-shoe pas de deux? Think the Alligator-Hippo scene in Fantasia.
Followed by Fr. Darby, entering stage left, asingin'...
In a coming-of-age year, I would have my moment on that stage as Tony, in a spoof we did on West Side Story.Though in our version, it was a "slang war" between the Irish and the Italians.
In adulthood, I would come to appreciate much of which is seen as something intrinsically Irish: a literary tradition rich in story telling and character development, as exemplified by their giants of prose, poetry and drama. First and foremost being James Joyce, exemplified by his seminal work, Ulysses (of which I wrote about on here last year). From which Bloomsday celebrations have emerged around the world each June 16th.
As a member of the Irish American Writers and Artists (idiosyncratic, given my Italian descendancy), I got to participate in one such jubilation last year on the streets of the Upper West Side. A series of readings and essays on Ulysses.
Malachi McCourt, the founder of this organization, would be present at most monthly gatherings, ending each with a singalong of Old Mountain Tyme. Which is another hallmark of the Irish. The invocation of traditional folk ballads from the old sod, at the drop of a hat. Even in the absence of a hat. Malachi passed away last March at age 92.
"Despite the island's small geographic size, Ireland has traditionally been a phenomenal wellspring of significant cultural output, which
historically had a strong influence on other
neighboring countries in Britain, especially in the areas of religion, education, art, music, and literature," was something I had quoted in last June's MuseLetter. A place that I was fortunate to have visited on business for a then client, Gateway Inc., a computer company that had just opened up for business there.
Dublin struck us as being a vibrant city with a friendly atmosphere, and one in which we couldn't help but partake of its bustling pub culture. Staying in nearby Portmarnock, an evening walk on a balmy spring evening along the Irish Sea, was sublime and memorable. An exclamation point to the visit.
Yes, I guess, I am a Hibernophile. A word I learned just a year ago and had posted here. One fond of Irish culture, and Ireland in general. And with another St. Patrick's Day 'anear, along with its 264th parade in New York, yes indeed...
Photoshopped 2025
Photoshopped 2025
Quote of the Month
—Nicholas Carr
Super Bloom How Technologies of Connection Are Tearing Us Apart
Word of the Month
palaver pa·lav·er pə-ˈla-vər -ˈlä-
noun
1. a: long parley usually between persons of different cultures or levels of sophistication, a palaver between foreign ministers
b: conference, discussion, a palaver between union leaders
2. a: idle talk
b: misleading or beguiling speech
1: to talk profusely or idly
2: parley
: to use palaver; to cajole
Etymology
Portuguese palavra word, speech, from late Latin parabola, parable
First known use
1713 in the meaning defined in the transitive sense
1735 in the meaning defined in sense 1.a:
Used in a sentence
The likely purpose of this palaver was to put government itself, front and center as an issue, what with the upcoming election.
The New Yorker: Turning the Page on 100
In an age of apps when print and hard copy are becoming ever more difficult to sustain, for reasons of economics, waning attention-spans, the passionate Paperless Quest, etc., comes The New Yorker each week in my mailbox. "Yes, The New Yorker." As a bygone ad promoting the magazine once blandly intoned. And last month there it was. And as expected, there he was. Eustace Tilley on the cover of this 100th anniversary issue.
"The iconic mascot of The New Yorker magazine was created by artist Rea Irvin for its very first cover, appearing on February 21, 1925.
He was designed as a last-minute solution when the editor-in-chief, Harold Ross, was dissatisfied with other cover submissions, and wanted a character that would give the impression the magazine had been around for a long time.
Irvin based the design on a caricature of Alfred d'Orsay from a 19th-century magazine, adding a monocle for intellect and a butterfly for whimsy to the dapper gentleman aesthetic."(Google AI)
It is actually a spoof in itself. As in that first issue, its editor Harold Ross was unequivocal in his magazine's editorial mission. That it would be writing for a very urban and sophisticated audience, and not for "the old lady from Dubuque," or for anyone else from the Midwest for that matter.
On every anniversary each February, this image would be repeated. That is until 1994, when then editor Tina Brown shockingly violated the honored tradition, by spoofing the spoof with a grunge depiction by artist Robert Crumb. Which started a trend, now of over thirty years duration. A way of saying I suppose, we are not only for highbrows. We get it. We can laugh at ourselves. We're pretty hip surprisingly.
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Oh, those New Yorker covers. So often, so captivating. Which is odd for a publication given its makeup of so many words, which as Tina Brown when taking over as editor in 1992 said.... "The 50,000-word piece on zinc—did anyone really read it?" Her mission was clear as she addressed it in an interview:
"I wanted to wake up the sleeping beauty.... I felt that it was a literary jewel that had become overgrown with ivy and a sense of its own importance, and it had no visual appeal at all... one of my first things I did at the New Yorker, and I think people underestimate it, is the visual sense."
The importance of a visual sense cannot be overstated. For me, what The New Yorker offers is something literarily tangible. I've often felt that just holding it in hand, before ever turning into the first piece of writing, I have been transported to something that you can't quite put into words. Yet, so captures the essence of a moment. Small though it may be. Especially when in concert with a season. A favorite of mine, let me try... the languidness of a summer's day, with its invitation to escape into a realm of leisure.
Ms. Brown began to change the look and feel of the magazine, introducing photography to its pages—67 years after its first issue! What other popular mass-market publication had ever existed without the use of that newfangled thing called photography? And for so long?
She brought in Richard Avedon, famed for producing images that seemed to capture aspects of the mood and character of his subjects. Something you wouldn't find elsewhere. One of my favorites being that of poet W.H. Auden walking on St. Mark's place not far from his apartment, taken in 1960. It was an inspiration for a poem I'd write and publish in Shots from a Passing Car; to pause here for a moment.
Winter Street
He seems an apparition of the snow;
a whitewash of man and after-man
a piece of business with the world unsettled.
With knotted brow and knitted tie
he returns.
Ornery flakes swirl about him like bees—
he pays no notice, shows no trace
of wear for the distance he has come.
And with feet so determined towards this destination
his eyes seem unaware of a place in transition:
the rabble of storefront signs in new alphabets—hand painted
the butcher who held scraps for the dog is gone;
the candystore and sarsaparilla
pastry shop and charlotte russe—
gone to where sweet dreams go.
We tried to send you off with them
but you keep finding a way back
in those flimsy shoes so laughable—
on this journey in particular—
yet now I wear them every day too.
Does this satisfy you? Or shall we meet here next time
in a steely rain
pounding atop our heads unbowed
so proud, so crowned with thorns.
My love for The New Yorker was greatly enhanced, when in the advertising profession, I was afforded opportunities to encounter some of those closely associated with the magazine. They came by way of luncheons and events to which our ad agency was invited. With Richard Avedon for example, in discussing a photo essay he'd done in the magazine on those associated with the Kennedy years (the inspiration of another poem of mine which I gave him), I asked if he'd ever done a photo shoot of Ted Kennedy. Never one to mince words he replied, "Yes, a few months ago. He looked like shit."
With Tina Brown, I told her that the poems in the magazine were too often too obscure. "I've heard that," she replied somewhat tersely. And as for poetry, I once sat for a half hour with longtime poetry editor Alice Quinn, discussing what makes for a good poem. What does she look for when reading poetry? Which gave me no edge when I later submitted a batch of mine for consideration. I got the same pre-printed rejection notice all other wannabes receive. Though I did get one such rejection (in the few I received) with something written by hand in pencil. "They love you!" said George Plimpton when I told him this at another luncheon. The implication being that it is so daunting to submit something to The New Yorker, that it is a breakthrough to be rejected in such a personal manner. He had revealed at this gathering, the absolute fear he had in submitting something of his. "I was petrified." And he had waited a longtime before having the courage to first do so.
I got to meet David Remnick, the current editor now in his 26th year, when he first came on board. Wherein we discussed at one point, of all things, the psychological problem that the Yankee's second baseman Chuck Knoblauch was having in making the short throw to first base accurately. "I'm worried," said Remnick, a big Yankee fan. He'd also brought along Jeffrey Toobin that day, who regaled us with insider stories about the O.J. trial he was covering.
The point of this name dropping, is that for a publication with such a perception of being snooty, these encounters further went towards "de-snooting" the magazine for me. Real people were behind this magazine. Not some gods, so gifted, so sure of themselves, so above it all.
Circulation at 1.25 million subscribers, has never been higher in this one-hundredth year. Yes, many read it on their phones, and that too is something that Remnick has embraced. An Apple Podcast, Channels with Peter Kafka, best sums up what he has wrought:
When David Remnick got to the New Yorker in 1998, it was very much a capital M Magazine — it existed on ink and paper, and that was about it. Now it’s still a Magazine, but it’s also everything else you need to be to survive as a media company in 2024 — a robust online publisher, a podcast machine, a video operation, conference host and more. Along the way, it also pivoted from an ad-based business model to one that thrives on consumer subscriptions.
Yes, The New Yorker.
