Crisscross, which, I guess, represented the juxtaposition of pop culture and politics. When John found out they wanted to change the title, he became incensed. But Michael talked him down, telling him everything would work out and that he had this one covered.
Sure enough, a few days later, an anonymous source leaked an item to Page Six that John Kennedy was starting a magazine—and it was called George . No one, not even the Hachette execs holding the purse strings, could take it back after that. Now the whole world was waiting to get their first copy of George —the title was a done deal.
For the first three months of George ’s existence, the magazine was nothing more than John, the editor in chief; Michael, the publisher; and me, their assistant, locked in a conference room at Hachette’s headquarters, a skyscraper with forty-eight stories of black glass and steel at Broadway and 51st Street and a far cry from the laid-back downtown vibe at PR/NY.
Located off a small, gray lobby on the 44th floor—and shared by several other Hachette magazines, including Elle —was our “office,” a windowless conference room outfitted with three well-worn metal desks. So much for the glamorous image I had of New York publishing. We had three computers but only two phones, and no watercooler. I couldn’t believe we were stuck in such a shabby hole—even if it was temporary. John, the anti-diva, joked, “This is the life,” while I wondered if we wouldn’t have been more comfortable setting up our new offices on a bench in Madison Square Park.
We didn’t have time to brood over the claustrophobic setup, however; we had so much to do that we often worked rightthough lunch and dinner. (Best diet ever: I probably lost fifteen pounds during that time.) The conference room was flooded with résumés and portfolios as John and Michael set out to build an entire staff from executive editor to editorial assistant. The stakes were high as they searched for energetic and intelligent people who could fill in the knowledge gap left by their lack of editorial experience.
Everything was new and exciting—every person, position, and idea. But it was stressful, too. I had never worked at a magazine and couldn’t fathom keeping up with the slew of well-read, socially adept editors or creative and chic designers with whom I imagined I’d be working. Before Michael and John had hired a single person, I decided they were all smarter, better-looking, and savvier than me.
Since I still hadn’t told my friends about my new job, I wasn’t able to unburden myself of these mounting insecurities. Not that it mattered much, since I spent all my time at work, where personal calls were out of the question. Sandwiched between Michael and John, I wasn’t about to start whining into the phone, even to Frank. “It’s so good to be this close,” Michael said, laughing. “I feel like we’re a little family.” Good? I thought. Speak for yourself . I didn’t breathe for the first three months.
Everyone in that building was dying to know what we were up to. From the producers at VH-1 to the security guy in the lobby, people were buzzing with curiosity about John and his mystery magazine. We were like a new toy.
Within those four cramped walls, I also got my first real taste of the lack of privacy that accompanied John wherever he went. At Random Ventures, we had been bombarded with phone callsand mail, but here, people were constantly coming in and out of the conference room throughout the day. They would find any and every reason to ask a question or be helpful, while we remained trapped behind our metal desks. Building maintenance guys came to replace lightbulbs that weren’t burned out, and operations staff regularly checked our unchanging thermostat.
The female traffic was hilarious. Our neighbors, the Elle girls, turned John-spotting into an ongoing contest, keeping score on who saw him the most times in a day. Women in trendy
Sure enough, a few days later, an anonymous source leaked an item to Page Six that John Kennedy was starting a magazine—and it was called George . No one, not even the Hachette execs holding the purse strings, could take it back after that. Now the whole world was waiting to get their first copy of George —the title was a done deal.
For the first three months of George ’s existence, the magazine was nothing more than John, the editor in chief; Michael, the publisher; and me, their assistant, locked in a conference room at Hachette’s headquarters, a skyscraper with forty-eight stories of black glass and steel at Broadway and 51st Street and a far cry from the laid-back downtown vibe at PR/NY.
Located off a small, gray lobby on the 44th floor—and shared by several other Hachette magazines, including Elle —was our “office,” a windowless conference room outfitted with three well-worn metal desks. So much for the glamorous image I had of New York publishing. We had three computers but only two phones, and no watercooler. I couldn’t believe we were stuck in such a shabby hole—even if it was temporary. John, the anti-diva, joked, “This is the life,” while I wondered if we wouldn’t have been more comfortable setting up our new offices on a bench in Madison Square Park.
We didn’t have time to brood over the claustrophobic setup, however; we had so much to do that we often worked rightthough lunch and dinner. (Best diet ever: I probably lost fifteen pounds during that time.) The conference room was flooded with résumés and portfolios as John and Michael set out to build an entire staff from executive editor to editorial assistant. The stakes were high as they searched for energetic and intelligent people who could fill in the knowledge gap left by their lack of editorial experience.
Everything was new and exciting—every person, position, and idea. But it was stressful, too. I had never worked at a magazine and couldn’t fathom keeping up with the slew of well-read, socially adept editors or creative and chic designers with whom I imagined I’d be working. Before Michael and John had hired a single person, I decided they were all smarter, better-looking, and savvier than me.
Since I still hadn’t told my friends about my new job, I wasn’t able to unburden myself of these mounting insecurities. Not that it mattered much, since I spent all my time at work, where personal calls were out of the question. Sandwiched between Michael and John, I wasn’t about to start whining into the phone, even to Frank. “It’s so good to be this close,” Michael said, laughing. “I feel like we’re a little family.” Good? I thought. Speak for yourself . I didn’t breathe for the first three months.
Everyone in that building was dying to know what we were up to. From the producers at VH-1 to the security guy in the lobby, people were buzzing with curiosity about John and his mystery magazine. We were like a new toy.
Within those four cramped walls, I also got my first real taste of the lack of privacy that accompanied John wherever he went. At Random Ventures, we had been bombarded with phone callsand mail, but here, people were constantly coming in and out of the conference room throughout the day. They would find any and every reason to ask a question or be helpful, while we remained trapped behind our metal desks. Building maintenance guys came to replace lightbulbs that weren’t burned out, and operations staff regularly checked our unchanging thermostat.
The female traffic was hilarious. Our neighbors, the Elle girls, turned John-spotting into an ongoing contest, keeping score on who saw him the most times in a day. Women in trendy
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