Lifestyle
The New Yorker Celebrates 100 Years
On Tuesday evening, Art Spiegelman and Françoise Mouly were sitting at a sidewalk table outside Jean’s, a chic night spot in the NoHo neighborhood of Manhattan. Nearby, writers, critics and cartoonists streamed past a black rope and a bouncer to attend The New Yorker’s 100th anniversary party.
Mr. Spiegelman, the graphic novelist who has been a contributor to the publication since 1992, puffed on a slender e-cigarette. Ms. Mouly, the magazine’s longtime art editor, took in the scene. The two have been married almost 50 years.
“The New Yorker is the last of its kind standing, and tonight we’re celebrating that,” Mr. Spiegelman said. “I still remember meeting the great writer Joseph Mitchell in the magazine’s hallway. I felt like I was in the presence of a monument.”
Ms. Mouly, who recently curated a centennial exhibit of the magazine’s covers for L’Alliance New York, a French cultural center, also reflected on the big night.
“A hundred years of The New Yorker is a vindication of what I believe in,” she said. “Now there’s TikTok, and all the minutes people spend on it, but to me a magazine is a magazine is a magazine. That copies of The New Yorker used to pile up at the foot of the bed was once the magazine’s curse, but to me now that’s a point of pride.”
The choice of Jean’s as the venue for a party meant to celebrate a publication known for deeply reported articles and literary fiction came as a bit of a surprise to Hua Hsu, a Pulitzer Prize winner who writes about music and culture for the magazine.
“I guess part of me was hoping the party might be at some stuffy old uptown spot,” he said. “But this magazine can only be what it is because of the young people who keep coming through it and imparting their vision, so I think this venue nicely reflects that.”
As Iggy Pop and Fleetwood Mac played from the speakers, the place was packed with bookish guests who squeezed past one another on their way to a seafood platter.
David Remnick, who became the magazine’s fifth editor in 1998, roamed the floor, as did his predecessor in the job, Tina Brown.
“It would be the height of presumption to think anything can last another 100 years, and I know we’re all obsessed with every new thing that comes down the highway,” Mr. Remnick said. “But I absolutely believe that people will always want what we do at The New Yorker.”
He grew pensive as he considered two stalwarts of the magazine who were now gone. “I miss Janet Malcolm, and I miss Roger Angell,” he said. “I’ll always remember sitting with him in the left field stands for the Yankees. It was one of the great nights of my life.”
A pack of fiction writers — Zadie Smith, Jennifer Egan, Jeffrey Eugenides and Jonathan Lethem — gathered by the bar. The club was also flooded with staff writers including Rachel Aviv, Adam Gopnik, Jia Tolentino, Naomi Fry, Vinson Cunningham, Gideon Lewis-Kraus, Helen Rosner, Kelefa Sanneh, Rachel Syme, Kyle Chayka and Doreen St. Félix.
“The New Yorker doesn’t really change, which can be seen as a marker of conservatism, but there’s something to be gleaned by consistency,” Ms. St. Félix said. “We’re entering an era where there won’t be many things that last a hundred years.”
As waiters offered fries in Anthora coffee cups, bartenders served cocktails with New Yorker-appropriate names. The gin-based Tipsy Tilley referred to the magazine’s foppish mascot, Eustace Tilley, who appeared on the cover of the first issue, dated Feb. 21, 1925. Versions of the character, created by the cartoonist Rea Irvin, appear on the six cover variants the magazine rolled out for its anniversary issue this month.
“I think that in this day and age, endurance means something,” Susan Orlean, a longtime staff writer, said. “Tonight is like celebrating the centennial of the United States. We made it.”
The critic Emily Nussbaum danced beneath a disco ball alongside editors, fact-checkers and editorial assistants. Also present at Jean’s were the cartoonist Roz Chast and the writers Daniel Mendelsohn and Bill Buford. Roger Lynch and Jonathan Newhouse were among the executives at Condé Nast, the publisher that operates The New Yorker, who made the party.
Judith Thurman, who started writing for the magazine in 1987, made her way to the coat check. She said the party was a little more boisterous than she had expected.
“You could be wearing a garbage bag here, it’s so dark,” she said. “I don’t know if this venue is that great for those of us with hearing problems.”
“At first I thought this was my 100th birthday party, but then I remembered I’m only 78,” she added. “The more A.I. takes over, and TikTok takes over, the more there’s going to be a resistance to it one day. And The New Yorker will be here, more necessary than ever.”
As the party wound down, Patrick Radden Keefe reminisced about stepping into David Grann’s office to get structural advice on his stories. The film critic Richard Brody and the food writer Hannah Goldfield traded notes on “The Brutalist” and the merits of intermissions.
Calvin Trillin, who started writing for the magazine in 1963, was holding court by the bar as Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” blasted from a speaker.
“I’m 89 now, so I haven’t been here for all of the hundred years, but I’ve been here for quite a few,” he said. “Tonight I’ve thought about Joseph Mitchell, and how in awe I was of him. My wife used to say to me, ‘Why don’t you just ask him if he wants to go to lunch with you?’ But I didn’t have the nerve to.”
He swiped a cookie from a passing tray.
“A hundred years is a long time,” he said, “but I hope The New Yorker will go on for another hundred. There’s no good reason not to.”
Lifestyle
L.A. Affairs: Sick of swiping, I tried speed dating. The results surprised me
“You kinda have this Wednesday Addams vibe going on.”
I shrieked.
I was wearing my best armor: a black dress that accentuated my curves, a striped bolero to cover the arms I’ve resented for years and black platform sandals displaying ruby toes. My dark hair was in wild, voluminous curls and my sultry makeup was finished with an inviting Chanel rouge lip.
I would’ve preferred the gentleman at the speed dating event had likened my efforts to, at least, Morticia, a grown woman. But in this crowd of men and women ages ranging from roughly 21 to 40, I suppose my baby face gave me away.
My mind flitted back to a conversation I had with my physical therapist about modern love: Dating in L.A. has become monotonous.
The apps were oversaturated and underwhelming. And it seemed more difficult than ever to naturally meet someone in person.
She told me about her recent endeavor in speed dating: events sponsoring timed one-on-one “dates” with multiple candidates. I applauded her bravery, but the conversation had mostly slipped my mind.
Two years later, I had reached my boiling point with Jesse, a guy I met online (naturally) a few months prior who was good on paper but bad in practice.
Knowing my best friend was in a similar situationship, I found myself suggesting a curious social alternative.
Much of my knowledge of speed dating came from cinema. It usually involved a down-on-her-luck hopeless romantic or a mature workaholic attempting to be more spontaneous in her dating life, sitting across from a montage of caricatures: the socially-challenged geek stumbling through his special interests; the arrogant businessman diverting most of his attention to his Blackberry; the pseudo-suave ladies’ man whose every word comes across rehearsed and saccharine.
Nevertheless, I was desperate for a good distraction. So we purchased tickets to an event for straight singles happening a few hours later.
Walking into Oldfield’s Liquor Room, I noticed that it looked like a normal bar, all dark wood and dim lighting. Except its patrons flanked the perimeter of the space, speaking in hushed tones, sizing up the opposite sex.
Suddenly in need of some liquid courage, we rushed back to the car to indulge in the shooters we bought on our way to the venue — three for $6. I had already surrendered $30 for my ticket and I was not paying for Los Angeles-priced cocktails. Ten minutes later, we were ready to mingle.
The bar’s back patio was decked out with tea lights and potted palm plants. House-pop music put me in a groove as I perused the picnic tables covered with conversation starters like “What’s your favorite sexual position?” Half-amused and half-horrified, I decided to use my own material.
We found our seats as the host began introductions. Each date would last two minutes — a chime would alert the men when it was time to move clockwise to the next seat. I exchanged hopeful glances with the women around me.
The bell rang, and I felt my buzz subside in spades as my first date sat down. This was really happening.
Soft brown eyes greeted me. He was polite and responsive, giving adequate answers to my questions but rarely returning the inquiry. I sensed he was looking through me and not at me, as if he had decided I wasn’t his type and was biding his time until the bell rang. I didn’t take it personally.
Bachelor No. 2 stood well over six feet with caramel-brown hair and emerald eyes. He oozed confidence and warmth when he spoke about how healing from an accident a few years prior inspired him to become a physical therapist.
I tried not to focus on how his story was nearly word-perfect to the one I heard him give the woman before me. He offered to show me a large surgery scar, rolling up his right sleeve to reveal the pale pink flesh — and a well-trained bicep. Despite his obvious good looks and small-town charm, something suspicious gnawed at me. I would later learn he had left the same effect on most of the women.
My nose received Bachelor No. 3 before my eyes. His spiced cologne quickly engulfing my senses. He had a larger-than-life presence, seeming to be a character himself, so I asked for his favorite current watch.
“I love ‘The Summer I Turned Pretty,’” he actually said.
“Really?”
“Oh yeah, it’s my favorite. Oh, and ‘Wednesday.’ You kinda have this Wednesday Addams vibe going on.”
I was completely thrown to hear this 40-something man’s favorite programs centered around teenage girls, and by his standards, I resembled one of them. Where was the host with the damn bell?
Although a few conversations clearly left impressions, most of the dates morphed into remnants of information like fintech, middle sibling, allergic to cats, etc. Perhaps two minutes was too short to spark genuine chemistry.
After a quick lap around the post-date mingling, we practically raced to the car. A millisecond after the doors closed, my friend said, “I think I’m going to call him.” I knew she wasn’t referring to any of the men we met tonight. The last few hours were all in vain. “And you should call Jesse.”
I scoffed at her audacity.
When I arrived home and called him, it only rang once.
The following three hours of witty banter and cheeky innuendos were bliss until the call ended on a low note, and I remembered why I tried speed dating in the first place.
Jesse and I had great chemistry but were ultimately incompatible. He preferred living life within his comfort zone while I craved adventure and variety. He couldn’t see past right now, and I was too busy planning the future to live in the moment.
Still, in a three-hour call, long before the topic of commitment soured things, we laughed at the mundanity of our day, traded wildest dreams for embarrassing anecdotes, and voiced amorous intentions that would make Aphrodite’s cheeks heat.
Why couldn’t I have had a conversation like that with someone at the event?
It’s possible I was hoping to find the perfect replica of my relationship with Jesse. But when I had the opportunity to meet someone new, I reserved my humor and my empathy.
Also, despite knowing Jesse and I weren’t a good match, I thought we had a “chance connection” that I needed to protect. In reality, if I had shown up to speed dating as my complete self, that would have been more than enough to stir sparks with a new flame.
It would be several more weeks before I was ready to release my attachment to Jesse. But when I did, I had a better appreciation for myself and my capacity for love.
The author is a multidisciplinary writer and mother based in Encino.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Editor’s note: On April 3, L.A. Affairs Live, our new storytelling competition show, will feature real dating stories from people living in the Greater Los Angeles area. Tickets for our first event will be on sale starting Tuesday.
Lifestyle
In reversal, Warner Bros. jilts Netflix for Paramount
Warner Bros. Discovery said Thursday that it prefers the latest offer from rival Hollywood studio Paramount over a bid it accepted from Netflix.
Bloomberg/Bloomberg via Getty Images/Bloomberg
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Bloomberg/Bloomberg via Getty Images/Bloomberg
The Warner Bros. Discovery board announced late Thursday afternoon that Paramount’s sweetened bid to buy the entire company is “superior” to an $83 billion deal it had struck with Netflix for the purchase of its streaming services, studios, and intellectual property.
Netflix says it is pulling out of the contest rather than try to top Paramount’s offer.
“We’ve always been disciplined, and at the price required to match Paramount Skydance’s latest offer, the deal is no longer financially attractive, so we are declining to match the Paramount Skydance bid,” the streaming giant said in a statement.
Warner had rejected so many offers from Paramount that it seemed as though it would be a fruitless endeavor. Speaking on the red carpet for the BAFTA film awards last weekend, Netflix CEO Ted Sarandos dared Paramount to stop making its case publicly and start ponying up cash.
‘If you wanna try and outbid our deal … just make a better deal. Just put a better deal on the table,” Sarandos told the trade publication Deadline Hollywood.
Netflix promised that Warner Bros. would operate as an independent studio and keep showing its movies in theaters.
But the political realities, combined with Paramount’s owners’ relentless drive to expand their entertainment holdings, seem to have prevailed.
Paramount previously bid for all of Warner — including its cable channels such as CNN, TBS, and Discovery — in a deal valued at $108 billion. Earlier this week, Paramount unveiled a fresh proposal increasing its bid by a dollar a share.
On Thursday, hours before the Warner announcement, Sarandos headed to the White House to meet Trump administration officials to make his case for the deal.

The meetings, leaked Wednesday to political and entertainment media outlets, were confirmed by a White House official who spoke on condition he not be named, as he was not authorized to speak about them publicly.
President Trump was not among those who met with Sarandos, the official said.
While Netflix’s courtship of Warner stirred antitrust concerns, the Paramount deal is likely to face a significant antitrust review from the U.S. Justice Department, given the combination of major entertainment assets. Paramount owns CBS and the streamer Paramount Plus, in addition to Comedy Central, Nickelodeon and other cable channels.
The offer from Paramount CEO David Ellison relies on the fortune of his father, Oracle co-founder Larry Ellison. And David Ellison has argued to shareholders that his company would have a smoother path to regulatory approval.
Not unnoticed: the Ellisons’ warm ties to Trump world.

Larry Ellison is a financial backer of the president.
David Ellison was photographed offering a MAGA-friendly thumbs-up before the State of the Union address with one of the president’s key Congressional allies: U.S. Senator Lindsey Graham of South Carolina, a Republican.
Trump has praised changes to CBS News made under David Ellison’s pick for editor in chief, Bari Weiss.
The chair of the Federal Communications Commission, Brendan Carr, told Semafor Wednesday that he was pleased by the news division’s direction under Weiss. She has criticized much of the mainstream media as being too reflexively liberal and anti-Trump.

“I think they’re doing a great job,” Carr said at a Semafor conference on trust and the media Wednesday. As Semafor noted, Carr previously lauded CBS by saying it “agreed to return to more fact-based, unbiased reporting.”
Lifestyle
‘The Wire’ Star Bobby Brown Dispatch Audio From Fatal Barn Fire
‘The Wire’ Star Bobby J. Brown
He’s Trapped Inside Barn Fire!!!
Listen To Dispatch Audio
Published
Broadcastify.com
Here’s the dispatch audio from the fatal barn fire that killed “The Wire” actor Bobby J. Brown … and you hear dispatchers saying he’s trapped in the building after trying to start an old Cadillac.
TMZ obtained the dispatch audio, which also reveals Bobby’s wife called for help. It sounds like a huge inferno, the barn is 50-feet-by-100 and — by the end of the call — it’s all up in flames.
We broke the story … Bobby died Tuesday from smoke inhalation. The deadly fire started after Bobby entered the barn to jump-start a car. His wife suffered severe burns trying to save him.
Bobby played Officer Bobby Brown on the hit HBO series “The Wire” … and his other credits include “Law & Order: SVU” and “We Own This City.”
He was 62.
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