Tonight, I was digging into Andrew Romano’s delicious nine-page oral history of print Newsweek. I was daydreaming about three-martini lunches and adventures and an editorial process that dragged, dragged, dragged until suddenly, production night was there and everyone was drunk and all the words were beautiful.
It’s not the drunkenness that appealed to me so much as the adventures, the stories of Sherpas dragging a Jeep through the mud and a bartender who said, “You guys are from Newsweek? You should probably know the president’s been shot.” I was nostalgic. I wanted to be that kind of reporter in that kind of world.
And then this section smacked me in the face. Continue reading