receiver.
“Hi, honey,” he said. “Hold on, I’ll get your mother.”
“No, Dad, wait. I want to talk to you.”
“Oh, what’s the matter?”
I dove right into my predicament. Talking a mile a minute, I explained that I wasn’t sure John and Michael would be taking me with them and I didn’t know how to ask.
“You’re a smart girl with a lot of common sense and a good heart,” my dad said. “They’ve already hired you, so what are you worried about?”
“Come on, Dad. These people have Ivy League degrees. They have money. They’re completely hooked up. What the hell do they need from me?”
“Hey! What kind of stupid talk is that? Just because someone’s got more money doesn’t mean they’re better than you. As a matter of fact, most people with money are the cheapest bastards in the world. Just because they’ve got cash doesn’t mean they’ve got class. And it doesn’t mean they owe you anything, either . What they’ve got is none of your business. What have I always told you and your sisters?”
“Act like you’ve been there before,” I said, repeating the phrase I’d heard him say so many times.
“That’s right,” he said. “I don’t care if you walk into a penthouse on Park Avenue, you just say, ‘Nice place.’ Don’t make a production or tell them how much better it is than your place.”
“I know, Dad, but this situation is not that simple.”
“Yeah, it is. Listen, sweetheart, you already have everything. I bet these guys need you just as much as you need them.”
At the office the next day, with my dad’s pep talk fresh in my head, I waited a few hours after John came in before approaching him. I’d been trying to get up the nerve to talk to him all morning, turning my dad’s words over and over in my mind as I continued the pep talk: You’re doing a good job . John likes you. He’s comfortable around you. He doesn’t have to censor himself or worry that you’re untrustworthy. You’re a Terenzio from the Bronx, which means you keep shit close to your vest. Most of all, John knows that if you have something to say, you’ll say it to his face.
I saw the light on his phone line go off and slowly walkedto his office, where John was squeezing a stress ball and reading the newspaper standing up.
“Can I ask you something?” I blurted out, startling him as I stood in the doorway.
“Sure, Rosie.”
“Am I coming with you to Hachette?”
“Of course you are,” he said. “You’re a lifer, Rosie.”
And just like that, everything was okay. Everything was more than okay; it was amazing. My dad was right. And now I was about to enter the ranks of New York’s publishing elite alongside one of the country’s most famous figures. I knew that lots of people—cooler, richer, and better educated than me—would kill to be in my position. I had no idea what I had done to deserve this. I just hoped it would last.
CHAPTER
3
The name George said it all. Paying homage to the country’s first president, the title made clear the magazine’s themes of patriotism, democratic engagement, and history. And its informality pushed the publication’s pop side.
After the second meeting with Hachette, John and Michael’s venture gained momentum. Over the next several months, they attended meetings and more meetings with the Hachette people and their lawyers, until the deal was formally announced in February 1995, on Washington’s birthday (another of Michael’s PR moves). I wasn’t privy to the legal back-and-forth, but from my perspective, everything went smoothly. Everything except the naming of the magazine.
The name George was the brainchild of Daryl Hannah’s brother-in-law Lou Adler, the record producer responsible for the Mamas and the Papas and Cheech and Chong. John and Michael loved it. Unfortunately, Hachette didn’t feel the sameway, and they were footing the bill. The company offered a bunch of horrible alternatives, including
“Hi, honey,” he said. “Hold on, I’ll get your mother.”
“No, Dad, wait. I want to talk to you.”
“Oh, what’s the matter?”
I dove right into my predicament. Talking a mile a minute, I explained that I wasn’t sure John and Michael would be taking me with them and I didn’t know how to ask.
“You’re a smart girl with a lot of common sense and a good heart,” my dad said. “They’ve already hired you, so what are you worried about?”
“Come on, Dad. These people have Ivy League degrees. They have money. They’re completely hooked up. What the hell do they need from me?”
“Hey! What kind of stupid talk is that? Just because someone’s got more money doesn’t mean they’re better than you. As a matter of fact, most people with money are the cheapest bastards in the world. Just because they’ve got cash doesn’t mean they’ve got class. And it doesn’t mean they owe you anything, either . What they’ve got is none of your business. What have I always told you and your sisters?”
“Act like you’ve been there before,” I said, repeating the phrase I’d heard him say so many times.
“That’s right,” he said. “I don’t care if you walk into a penthouse on Park Avenue, you just say, ‘Nice place.’ Don’t make a production or tell them how much better it is than your place.”
“I know, Dad, but this situation is not that simple.”
“Yeah, it is. Listen, sweetheart, you already have everything. I bet these guys need you just as much as you need them.”
At the office the next day, with my dad’s pep talk fresh in my head, I waited a few hours after John came in before approaching him. I’d been trying to get up the nerve to talk to him all morning, turning my dad’s words over and over in my mind as I continued the pep talk: You’re doing a good job . John likes you. He’s comfortable around you. He doesn’t have to censor himself or worry that you’re untrustworthy. You’re a Terenzio from the Bronx, which means you keep shit close to your vest. Most of all, John knows that if you have something to say, you’ll say it to his face.
I saw the light on his phone line go off and slowly walkedto his office, where John was squeezing a stress ball and reading the newspaper standing up.
“Can I ask you something?” I blurted out, startling him as I stood in the doorway.
“Sure, Rosie.”
“Am I coming with you to Hachette?”
“Of course you are,” he said. “You’re a lifer, Rosie.”
And just like that, everything was okay. Everything was more than okay; it was amazing. My dad was right. And now I was about to enter the ranks of New York’s publishing elite alongside one of the country’s most famous figures. I knew that lots of people—cooler, richer, and better educated than me—would kill to be in my position. I had no idea what I had done to deserve this. I just hoped it would last.
CHAPTER
3
The name George said it all. Paying homage to the country’s first president, the title made clear the magazine’s themes of patriotism, democratic engagement, and history. And its informality pushed the publication’s pop side.
After the second meeting with Hachette, John and Michael’s venture gained momentum. Over the next several months, they attended meetings and more meetings with the Hachette people and their lawyers, until the deal was formally announced in February 1995, on Washington’s birthday (another of Michael’s PR moves). I wasn’t privy to the legal back-and-forth, but from my perspective, everything went smoothly. Everything except the naming of the magazine.
The name George was the brainchild of Daryl Hannah’s brother-in-law Lou Adler, the record producer responsible for the Mamas and the Papas and Cheech and Chong. John and Michael loved it. Unfortunately, Hachette didn’t feel the sameway, and they were footing the bill. The company offered a bunch of horrible alternatives, including
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