newyorker--2020-03-02--Jessica Simpson’s Mesmerizing Memoir of Recovery and X-ennial Fame

In 2017 , many American women—the rich , white , and sheltered conspicuous among them—turned outward , enlisting in causes greater than their families or themselves .
Jessica Simpson , the pop star turned fashion mogul , was at the time in the throes of an addiction to alcohol and sleeping pills ( having quit stimulants a couple of years earlier , after a doctor warned her that they could kill her ) .
Her new memoir , “ Open Book , ” is a mesmerizing record of this and other problems , including the fact that , as Simpson @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a lot of people at my house.
” On the Halloween afternoon that leads her to realize that she needs to address her issues , the crowd includes both of her parents ; her house manager , Randy ( “ my dad ’ s best friend from when I was a kid ” ) ; workers setting up for a party ; a “ glam squad ” ; however many guests would require the twenty golf carts Simpson and her husband have rented to go trick-or-treating in their gated community ; and Evelyn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ who finds her crying in her bedroom and holds her , stroking her forehead , until she zonks out .
The next day , amid more hairdressers , Simpson ’ s friends , who also work for her , stage an intervention .
Part of her cure turns out to be writing .
She returns to the diaries that she ’ s kept since adolescence , organized— “ a black one for the end of my first marriage , red for the hope of a love affair , blue for when I wanted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ lyrics ” —according to a Dewey Decimal System of the heart .
Journaling , the rare creative activity that brooks no collaboration , requires Simpson , as much as anything , to spend some time alone .
“ I think it ’ s important , whatever your situation , to turn inward , ” she concludes , sober , now , for two years .
“ Open Book ” has been phenomenally successful , reaching No .
1 on the New York Times best-seller list and compelling people who couldn ’ t previously @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as one Goodreads commenter wrote , “ Google enough about the 2000s to throw off the algorithm.
” Simpson , whose clothing line grosses a billion dollars a year , knows how to make product move .
The gossip in the book is fluorescently transparent and sweetly viperous , like a pink snakeskin sandal with a PVC upper .
We learn that Simpson ’ s first husband , Nick Lachey , demanded some phenomenal sum of alimony as they were divorcing , which she eventually paid to make him go away , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ time , after which she fell in love with John Mayer , who kept dumping her by e-mail and eventually coaxed her entire entourage into supporting a reconciliation ( “ Randy believed him ” ) , only to bail after she broke up with Tony Romo , her boyfriend at the time , who unfortunately didn ’ t want her to take any movie roles that required onscreen kissing .
( We won ’ t delve into her liaison with Johnny Knoxville , except to say that his nickname for her was “ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ moments of Simpson ’ s life are often fascinating , as a sort of ethnography of X-ennial Los Angeles fame .
As participant-observer , Simpson is both aware of and oblivious to the weirdness .
“ ‘ This guy just left Jessica Simpson naked in bed to go see Marianne Williamson , ’ I said aloud , ” she writes , of the morning after she met her current husband , Eric Johnson , a former tight end in the N.F.L.
, with whom she has three young children .
The accumulation of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that , unusually , isn ’ t based on a disingenuous kind of levelling .
Hooking up with their new crushes and then referring to themselves in the third person : stars are only sort of like us , Simpson acknowledges .
We don ’ t identify with her because she once spent “ something like a hundred and fifty thousand dollars ” on her husband ’ s birthday weekend in Las Vegas ; we identify with her because she can ’ t keep herself from telling us about it .
We ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Newlyweds , ” her MTV reality series , that Simpson is a talker .
She ’ s a writer , too , entrancing and somehow economical , even in a book that runs to four hundred pages .
She has an insane gift for the thumbnail sketch .
Who , now , will be able to look at Justin Timberlake , who competed against Simpson in 1993 for a spot on “ The All-New Mickey Mouse Club , ” and see anything but a boy “ running around the pool , completely ‘ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ finals had already started ” ?
Who needs more than “ Stephen and Mary Jo are from Boston and are very New England in their demeanor ” to guess how Simpson ’ s early encounters with her in-laws probably went ?
Until now , Simpson ’ s most immortal one-liner involved tuna fish .
But her recollection of seeing a car belonging to her then estranged father , a former Baptist preacher , in the parking lot of her daughter ’ s school— “ It was hard to miss , a bright-green custom @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” —is just as unforgettable , a sixteen-word novel for the age of self-actualizing stage dads .
Simpson worked on “ Open Book ” with a ghostwriter , Kevin Carr O ’ Leary .
Whatever their process was , her own flair for language is apparent , from her neologisms ( “ glittercups ” are the gold , lidded tumblers from which she drank vodka and flavored Perrier at all hours of the day ) to bits of dialogue that have clearly tickled her and her family for years ( “ You gon @ @ @ @ @ @ @ chapel ?
” a deacon asks her mother , who is trying to start an aerobics class called Jump for Jesus ) .
Her depictions of fashion on the brink of Y2K are vivid enough to render a search engine moot .
She recalls Nick Lachey , on the night they met , in “ red overalls with the left strap off , and a cream turtleneck.
” In a new documentary , “ Miss Americana , ” Taylor Swift theorizes that celebrities often get mentally stuck at the age they became famous @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stuck in the outfit .
The night that Johnson proposed to her , she recalls , she was watching television on the couch in his “ big Yale sweatshirt ” and what she likes to call her “ ruffle-butt panties.
” Her book-tour looks have marked a return to glamour , but I would bet money that she still has a pair of Bongo short shorts hanging around somewhere .
If Taylor Swift is the liberal whom people long suspected of being a conservative , Jessica Simpson is the conservative who might be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the book , she has come to terms with a lifetime of traumas , from the micro ( Chuck Norris taping her eyebrows in an acting class ) to the medium ( being fat-shamed for wearing a pair of “ mom jeans ” ) and the major ( childhood sexual abuse and the horrific bullying that followed it ) .
The transformation seems to involve some turn , however vague , toward a form of feminism .
“ How many times are women made to feel responsible for the actions of men @ @ @ @ @ @ @ post-divorce encounter with Lachey .
“ I know now that I wasn ’ t , but back then , it felt like I needed to fix him.
” Her vocabulary , frequently so precise , is vague here .
Likewise , the only time in the book that she participates in the ritual of checking her privilege , her intent is unclear .
“ I was very aware of my privilege in my ability to go home , ” she writes , of performing for troops in Tikrit , Iraq .
She adds @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ I chose that song because I believed they should all be able to come home.
” Why does she believe that ?
For once , she doesn ’ t say , leaving the reader bewildered as to whether she ’ s just read “ The Secret ” or is making some kind of antiwar statement , however meek .
She is also oddly evasive about race , especially given that she began her career in gospel music .
“ They seemed to be just as surprised to see me as I was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is this little girl ?
” Simpson recalls , of a recording session with a full gospel choir , organized by her early mentor Dr. DeForest B. Soaries , the pastor of the First Baptist Church of Lincoln Gardens , “ one of the largest African-American congregations in New Jersey.
” She seems to be holding back from saying what you can more plausibly imagine the gospel singers asking themselves : “ Who is this little white girl ?
” I still have a few questions : Is it just a coincidence that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ CaCee , Lolo , and Koko ?
Why do her kids have to be at school at seven o ’ clock in the morning ?
But “ Open Book ” is ultimately a testimony—a gut-spilling account of getting saved all over again and understanding the responsibility that grace implies .
Whatever her other evolutions , Simpson clearly remains a child of God , who , she writes , had “ given me a light and a calling to use my voice to help others.
” She is perceptive about honesty , which , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ somewhere.
” She writes , “ When people saw the real me , they wanted me to succeed.
” I see her now , succeeding , and I wonder how she wants to use her money , her intelligence , and her time .
In 2017 , something awoke in Simpson .
She can speak honestly now .
Is there anything else she wants to say ?

In 2017, many American women—the rich, white, and sheltered conspicuous among them—turned outward, enlisting in causes greater than their families or themselves. Jessica Simpson, the pop star turned fashion mogul, was at the time in the throes of an addiction to alcohol and sleeping pills (having quit stimulants a couple of years earlier, after a doctor warned her that they could kill her). Her new memoir, “Open Book,” is a mesmerizing record of this and other problems, including the fact that, as Simpson acknowledges, “There’s always a lot of people at my house.” On the Halloween afternoon that leads her to realize that she needs to address her issues, the crowd includes both of her parents; her house manager, Randy (“my dad’s best friend from when I was a kid”); workers setting up for a party; a “glam squad”; however many guests would require the twenty golf carts Simpson and her husband have rented to go trick-or-treating in their gated community; and Evelyn, her housekeeper of fifteen years, who finds her crying in her bedroom and holds her, stroking her forehead, until she zonks out. The next day, amid more hairdressers, Simpson’s friends, who also work for her, stage an intervention. Part of her cure turns out to be writing. She returns to the diaries that she’s kept since adolescence, organized—“a black one for the end of my first marriage, red for the hope of a love affair, blue for when I wanted to focus on my career and song lyrics”—according to a Dewey Decimal System of the heart. Journaling, the rare creative activity that brooks no collaboration, requires Simpson, as much as anything, to spend some time alone. “I think it’s important, whatever your situation, to turn inward,” she concludes, sober, now, for two years.
“Open Book” has been phenomenally successful, reaching No. 1 on the New York Times best-seller list and compelling people who couldn’t previously have cared less about Simpson to, as one Goodreads commenter wrote, “Google enough about the 2000s to throw off the algorithm.” Simpson, whose clothing line grosses a billion dollars a year, knows how to make product move. The gossip in the book is fluorescently transparent and sweetly viperous, like a pink snakeskin sandal with a PVC upper. We learn that Simpson’s first husband, Nick Lachey, demanded some phenomenal sum of alimony as they were divorcing, which she eventually paid to make him go away, but not before sleeping with him one last time, after which she fell in love with John Mayer, who kept dumping her by e-mail and eventually coaxed her entire entourage into supporting a reconciliation (“Randy believed him”), only to bail after she broke up with Tony Romo, her boyfriend at the time, who unfortunately didn’t want her to take any movie roles that required onscreen kissing. (We won’t delve into her liaison with Johnny Knoxville, except to say that his nickname for her was “lady.”)
Even the less juicy moments of Simpson’s life are often fascinating, as a sort of ethnography of X-ennial Los Angeles fame. As participant-observer, Simpson is both aware of and oblivious to the weirdness. “ ‘This guy just left Jessica Simpson naked in bed to go see Marianne Williamson,’ I said aloud,” she writes, of the morning after she met her current husband, Eric Johnson, a former tight end in the N.F.L., with whom she has three young children. The accumulation of detail creates an intimacy with the reader that, unusually, isn’t based on a disingenuous kind of levelling. Hooking up with their new crushes and then referring to themselves in the third person: stars are only sort of like us, Simpson acknowledges. We don’t identify with her because she once spent “something like a hundred and fifty thousand dollars” on her husband’s birthday weekend in Las Vegas; we identify with her because she can’t keep herself from telling us about it.
We’ve known since the days of “Newlyweds,” her MTV reality series, that Simpson is a talker. She’s a writer, too, entrancing and somehow economical, even in a book that runs to four hundred pages. She has an insane gift for the thumbnail sketch. Who, now, will be able to look at Justin Timberlake, who competed against Simpson in 1993 for a spot on “The All-New Mickey Mouse Club,” and see anything but a boy “running around the pool, completely ‘on’ like he knew the audition finals had already started”? Who needs more than “Stephen and Mary Jo are from Boston and are very New England in their demeanor” to guess how Simpson’s early encounters with her in-laws probably went? Until now, Simpson’s most immortal one-liner involved tuna fish. But her recollection of seeing a car belonging to her then estranged father, a former Baptist preacher, in the parking lot of her daughter’s school—“It was hard to miss, a bright-green custom sports car I recognized from his Instagram”—is just as unforgettable, a sixteen-word novel for the age of self-actualizing stage dads.
Simpson worked on “Open Book” with a ghostwriter, Kevin Carr O’Leary. Whatever their process was, her own flair for language is apparent, from her neologisms (“glittercups” are the gold, lidded tumblers from which she drank vodka and flavored Perrier at all hours of the day) to bits of dialogue that have clearly tickled her and her family for years (“You gonna be doing acrobatics in the church chapel?” a deacon asks her mother, who is trying to start an aerobics class called Jump for Jesus). Her depictions of fashion on the brink of Y2K are vivid enough to render a search engine moot. She recalls Nick Lachey, on the night they met, in “red overalls with the left strap off, and a cream turtleneck.” In a new documentary, “Miss Americana,” Taylor Swift theorizes that celebrities often get mentally stuck at the age they became famous. Simpson just seems to have got stuck in the outfit. The night that Johnson proposed to her, she recalls, she was watching television on the couch in his “big Yale sweatshirt” and what she likes to call her “ruffle-butt panties.” Her book-tour looks have marked a return to glamour, but I would bet money that she still has a pair of Bongo short shorts hanging around somewhere.
If Taylor Swift is the liberal whom people long suspected of being a conservative, Jessica Simpson is the conservative who might be becoming a liberal. By the end of the book, she has come to terms with a lifetime of traumas, from the micro (Chuck Norris taping her eyebrows in an acting class) to the medium (being fat-shamed for wearing a pair of “mom jeans”) and the major (childhood sexual abuse and the horrific bullying that followed it). The transformation seems to involve some turn, however vague, toward a form of feminism. “How many times are women made to feel responsible for the actions of men?” Simpson writes, of a post-divorce encounter with Lachey. “I know now that I wasn’t, but back then, it felt like I needed to fix him.” Her vocabulary, frequently so precise, is vague here. Likewise, the only time in the book that she participates in the ritual of checking her privilege, her intent is unclear. “I was very aware of my privilege in my ability to go home,” she writes, of performing for troops in Tikrit, Iraq. She adds, of another U.S.O. gig, “I chose that song because I believed they should all be able to come home.” Why does she believe that? For once, she doesn’t say, leaving the reader bewildered as to whether she’s just read “The Secret” or is making some kind of antiwar statement, however meek. She is also oddly evasive about race, especially given that she began her career in gospel music. “They seemed to be just as surprised to see me as I was to see them. Like, Who is this little girl?” Simpson recalls, of a recording session with a full gospel choir, organized by her early mentor Dr. DeForest B. Soaries, the pastor of the First Baptist Church of Lincoln Gardens, “one of the largest African-American congregations in New Jersey.” She seems to be holding back from saying what you can more plausibly imagine the gospel singers asking themselves: “Who is this little white girl?”
I still have a few questions: Is it just a coincidence that Simpson’s good friends are named CaCee, Lolo, and Koko? Why do her kids have to be at school at seven o’clock in the morning? But “Open Book” is ultimately a testimony—a gut-spilling account of getting saved all over again and understanding the responsibility that grace implies. Whatever her other evolutions, Simpson clearly remains a child of God, who, she writes, had “given me a light and a calling to use my voice to help others.” She is perceptive about honesty, which, she observes, “will lead you somewhere.” She writes, “When people saw the real me, they wanted me to succeed.” I see her now, succeeding, and I wonder how she wants to use her money, her intelligence, and her time. In 2017, something awoke in Simpson. She can speak honestly now. Is there anything else she wants to say?


newyorker--2020-03-02--The PowerPoint Platitudes of “Bloomberg by Bloomberg”

Michael Bloomberg ’ s autobiography , “ Bloomberg by Bloomberg , ” was first published in 1997 , when Bloomberg ’ s net worth was an estimated $ 1.3 billion .
Last year , after Bloomberg had reportedly begun considering a 2020 Presidential run , he published a revised and expanded edition .
Recently , I read both versions .
As the one time ghostwriter of a business self-help book , I have built up a relatively high tolerance for this particular genre of self-congratulatory autobiography , and I ’ m sure that “ Bloomberg by Bloomberg ” would be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ t currently attempting to purchase the Democratic Presidential nomination .
But the book would still come off like a piece of internal corporate literature that had been published by accident—like something you might find on your chair at the company retreat celebrating thirty years of Bloomberg , but would never see anywhere else .
Reading it feels like being trapped inside a PowerPoint presentation about why billionaires are interesting .
Most books in this genre abide by a familiar three-act structure : adversity , struggle , triumph .
Bloomberg begins with the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , that he calls “ the Last Supper , ” when he was fired from Salomon Brothers and given a ten-million-dollar severance .
( He put four million dollars toward founding the company that became Bloomberg L.P. ) Bloomberg , a descendant of Polish and Lithuanian Jews , grew up in the small Massachusetts city of Medford—essentially a suburb of Boston—and went to Johns Hopkins , then did an M.B.A. at Harvard Business School .
Getting hired at an investment-banking firm in the nineteen-sixties and seventies was not “ an easy thing to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ founding family , ” he writes ( he means to say for someone who is not a direct descendant of the founding family ) .
And securities trading and sales , which he pursued , were considered “ second-class occupations , ” because “ relatively few Ivy League graduates wanted them.
” In his first months at Salomon , he counted securities by hand—a “ pretty lowly start for a Harvard M.B.A. , ” he writes .
“ We slaved in our underwear .
.
.
in an unair-conditioned bank vault , with @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it more bearable.
” If you adjust for inflation , his starting salary was $ 71,658 , and the company also gave him a $ 19,905 loan—not bad for counting money in your underwear while drinking beer .
He got promoted to the Purchase and Sales Department , which did not have the company ’ s fanciest offices .
“ There I was , ” he recalls , “ a Johns Hopkins and Harvard Business School graduate , toiling in a slum with worn-out linoleum floors and broken wooden chairs.
” He ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Bloomberg writes , without false modesty , he “ moved to the Equities Desk and the rest is history.
” He started taking clients out golfing and skiing on the company dime , doing “ whatever tickled our fancy , when , where , and with whomever we chose.
” He was “ the block-trading superstar in the most visible department of the trendiest firm on the Street , ” but he still went to free concerts in Central Park , commuted via subway , and took his girlfriend for dates on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ never spent a lot , but I also don ’ t remember wanting anything I didn ’ t just go out and buy , ” he writes .
“ Good times , great friends , fantastic job , lots of cash : I had it all.
” He ’ s crushed when he doesn ’ t make partner , but he goes for a run , gets up for work the next morning , and makes one of the biggest trades in company history .
After another three months , he makes partner @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the computer-systems department .
Then he ’ s fired , at the Last Supper , just like Jesus .
Bloomberg describes his prospects , after his firing , as “ uncertain ( unless you count the $ 10 million I was receiving for my stake in the sale of Salomon Brothers ) .
” He buys his wife a sable jacket , because it “ seemed to say , ‘ No sweat .
We can still eat .
We ’ re still players.
’ ” He founds his own company , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not currently available.
” He settles on purpose-built machines that allow professionals to access fluctuating financial data in real time : Bloomberg terminals .
The company expands into news .
Today , Bloomberg has nineteen thousand employees in more than a hundred and twenty countries .
The company has more than three hundred and twenty-five thousand subscribers , each paying north of twenty thousand dollars annually to use Bloomberg terminals .
“ What would have happened had I been allowed to stay at Salomon after the Phibro deal ?
” Bloomberg wonders .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , acquired Salomon Brothers shortly before Bloomberg was fired . )
“ Would we have stayed ahead of the competition ?
Would we have given our clients a proprietary B Page to lock them in ?
Might internal controls have prevented Salomon ’ s Treasury Bond trading scandal in 1991 ?
Would it have stopped the buy side from getting tools to even the fight with the sell side ?
” It ’ s “ all useless conjecture , ” he concludes , “ but fun to speculate on nevertheless.
” An actual @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the news recently : a thirty-two-page compilation of various off-color things that Bloomberg said in his early years at the company , which was presented to Bloomberg as a gag gift , in 1990 .
A former Bloomberg executive who helped compile the booklet told New York magazine that Bloomberg was proud of the book when he received it .
“ He loves things that are about himself , ” the former executive said .
“ He saw this as a tribute , a testimonial—which it was.
” The booklet can be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one of Bloomberg ’ s descriptions of the Bloomberg terminal : it “ will do everything , ” he said , “ including give you a blowjob .
I guess that puts a lot of you girls out of business.
” ( There are a lot of blow-job comments in the booklet . )
Bloomberg appears to have trained himself out of this way of speaking—though , judging by the impatient way he responded to Elizabeth Warren ’ s remarks on the subject at a recent Democratic debate , he ’ s still @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it .
( Through a spokesperson , Bloomberg has called his words “ wrong , ” and said that they have not always aligned with his values . )
He seems to think that off-color remarks are a ridiculous topic of conversation when there ’ s a country called America that he , Bloomberg—a man who might easily not be giving away billions of dollars—is willing to muster his considerable executive skills to run .
But Bloomberg has more to answer for than disrespectful comments .
In the course of two decades , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sixty-four employees , about the misogynistic atmosphere at Bloomberg L.P. One court filing alleged that Bloomberg created an environment in which male executives targeted “ young , female , naïve employees ” for sex .
In 2007 , the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission filed a lawsuit alleging a pattern of discrimination at Bloomberg : three employees claimed they faced demotions and pay cuts after disclosing their pregnancies .
( The lawsuit was thrown out in 2013 . )
In a lawsuit filed in the nineties , a woman claimed that Bloomberg told her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ found out she was pregnant , an allegation that Bloomberg denies .
“ Women ’ s groups always cite us as a model place to be employed , ” Bloomberg boasts in “ Bloomberg by Bloomberg ” —or used to , anyway : the sentence has been cut from the revised version , which instead cites Bloomberg ’ s laudable policies on paid parental leave .

Michael Bloomberg’s autobiography makes clear whom he sees and whom he doesn’t.
Michael Bloomberg’s autobiography, “Bloomberg by Bloomberg,” was first published in 1997, when Bloomberg’s net worth was an estimated $1.3 billion. Last year, after Bloomberg had reportedly begun considering a 2020 Presidential run, he published a revised and expanded edition. Recently, I read both versions. As the onetime ghostwriter of a business self-help book, I have built up a relatively high tolerance for this particular genre of self-congratulatory autobiography, and I’m sure that “Bloomberg by Bloomberg” would be far less irritating if its author weren’t currently attempting to purchase the Democratic Presidential nomination. But the book would still come off like a piece of internal corporate literature that had been published by accident—like something you might find on your chair at the company retreat celebrating thirty years of Bloomberg, but would never see anywhere else. Reading it feels like being trapped inside a PowerPoint presentation about why billionaires are interesting.
Most books in this genre abide by a familiar three-act structure: adversity, struggle, triumph. Bloomberg begins with the story of a night, in 1981, that he calls “the Last Supper,” when he was fired from Salomon Brothers and given a ten-million-dollar severance. (He put four million dollars toward founding the company that became Bloomberg L.P.) Bloomberg, a descendant of Polish and Lithuanian Jews, grew up in the small Massachusetts city of Medford—essentially a suburb of Boston—and went to Johns Hopkins, then did an M.B.A. at Harvard Business School. Getting hired at an investment-banking firm in the nineteen-sixties and seventies was not “an easy thing to do for a nondirect descendent of the founding family,” he writes (he means to say for someone who is not a direct descendant of the founding family). And securities trading and sales, which he pursued, were considered “second-class occupations,” because “relatively few Ivy League graduates wanted them.” In his first months at Salomon, he counted securities by hand—a “pretty lowly start for a Harvard M.B.A.,” he writes. “We slaved in our underwear . . . in an unair-conditioned bank vault, with an occasional six-pack of beer to make it more bearable.” If you adjust for inflation, his starting salary was $71,658, and the company also gave him a $19,905 loan—not bad for counting money in your underwear while drinking beer. He got promoted to the Purchase and Sales Department, which did not have the company’s fanciest offices. “There I was,” he recalls, “a Johns Hopkins and Harvard Business School graduate, toiling in a slum with worn-out linoleum floors and broken wooden chairs.” He’s joking, sort of.
Then, Bloomberg writes, without false modesty, he “moved to the Equities Desk and the rest is history.” He started taking clients out golfing and skiing on the company dime, doing “whatever tickled our fancy, when, where, and with whomever we chose.” He was “the block-trading superstar in the most visible department of the trendiest firm on the Street,” but he still went to free concerts in Central Park, commuted via subway, and took his girlfriend for dates on the Staten Island Ferry. “I never spent a lot, but I also don’t remember wanting anything I didn’t just go out and buy,” he writes. “Good times, great friends, fantastic job, lots of cash: I had it all.” He’s crushed when he doesn’t make partner, but he goes for a run, gets up for work the next morning, and makes one of the biggest trades in company history. After another three months, he makes partner. Later, he’s shunted to the computer-systems department. Then he’s fired, at the Last Supper, just like Jesus.
Bloomberg describes his prospects, after his firing, as “uncertain (unless you count the $10 million I was receiving for my stake in the sale of Salomon Brothers).” He buys his wife a sable jacket, because it “seemed to say, ‘No sweat. We can still eat. We’re still players.’ ” He founds his own company, and casts about for a “value-added service not currently available.” He settles on purpose-built machines that allow professionals to access fluctuating financial data in real time: Bloomberg terminals. The company expands into news. Today, Bloomberg has nineteen thousand employees in more than a hundred and twenty countries. The company has more than three hundred and twenty-five thousand subscribers, each paying north of twenty thousand dollars annually to use Bloomberg terminals.
“What would have happened had I been allowed to stay at Salomon after the Phibro deal?” Bloomberg wonders. (Phibro, a commodities trading firm, acquired Salomon Brothers shortly before Bloomberg was fired.) “Would we have stayed ahead of the competition? Would we have given our clients a proprietary B Page to lock them in? Might internal controls have prevented Salomon’s Treasury Bond trading scandal in 1991? Would it have stopped the buy side from getting tools to even the fight with the sell side?” It’s “all useless conjecture,” he concludes, “but fun to speculate on nevertheless.”
An actual piece of internal Bloomberg literature has been in the news recently: a thirty-two-page compilation of various off-color things that Bloomberg said in his early years at the company, which was presented to Bloomberg as a gag gift, in 1990. A former Bloomberg executive who helped compile the booklet told New York magazine that Bloomberg was proud of the book when he received it. “He loves things that are about himself,” the former executive said. “He saw this as a tribute, a testimonial—which it was.” The booklet can be read online in full. It quotes one of Bloomberg’s descriptions of the Bloomberg terminal: it “will do everything,” he said, “including give you a blowjob. I guess that puts a lot of you girls out of business.” (There are a lot of blow-job comments in the booklet.)
Bloomberg appears to have trained himself out of this way of speaking—though, judging by the impatient way he responded to Elizabeth Warren’s remarks on the subject at a recent Democratic debate, he’s still not used to being called out on it. (Through a spokesperson, Bloomberg has called his words “wrong,” and said that they have not always aligned with his values.) He seems to think that off-color remarks are a ridiculous topic of conversation when there’s a country called America that he, Bloomberg—a man who might easily not be giving away billions of dollars—is willing to muster his considerable executive skills to run. But Bloomberg has more to answer for than disrespectful comments. In the course of two decades, nearly forty lawsuits were filed, by sixty-four employees, about the misogynistic atmosphere at Bloomberg L.P. One court filing alleged that Bloomberg created an environment in which male executives targeted “young, female, naïve employees” for sex. In 2007, the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission filed a lawsuit alleging a pattern of discrimination at Bloomberg: three employees claimed they faced demotions and pay cuts after disclosing their pregnancies. (The lawsuit was thrown out in 2013.) In a lawsuit filed in the nineties, a woman claimed that Bloomberg told her to “kill it” when he found out she was pregnant, an allegation that Bloomberg denies. “Women’s groups always cite us as a model place to be employed,” Bloomberg boasts in “Bloomberg by Bloomberg”—or used to, anyway: the sentence has been cut from the revised version, which instead cites Bloomberg’s laudable policies on paid parental leave.
Bloomberg representatives have assured the press that the company does not have a frat-house atmosphere, as was formerly alleged. Bloomberg belonged to a fraternity at Johns Hopkins; in the original version of “Bloomberg by Bloomberg,” he compared it to “Animal House,” but that comparison has been removed from the new edition. Plenty of frat references remain, though—Bloomberg describes a Salomon Brothers celebration as a “great big wonderful fraternity party,” for instance. One gets the sense that Bloomberg doesn’t see any inherent contradiction between a frat-house style and respect for women. Who cares what a man says about blow jobs if he understands that providing good maternity benefits will benefit the bottom line?
In “Bloomberg by Bloomberg,” lack of opportunity is always an opportunity. There are things we can’t change, in Bloomberg’s view: a certain “genetic intelligence level” and the circumstances of our birth. But “most fortunes are built by entrepreneurs who started with nothing,” he insists, without citing any evidence. He goes on, “Throughout history, the vast majority of great writers, artists, musicians, dancers, jurists and athletes have come from the less financially secure families. The CEOs of many Fortune 500 companies went to State U rather than Ivy League schools.” Could it be, he asks, that “good ‘prenatal intelligence’ (the ability to pick the right parents) is possessed by those born into poor families as opposed to those who are children of the rich? Or that the traditional prerequisites of success are not terribly important today?” Bloomberg strenuously avoids any mention of gender or race in this passage; in 2018, only twenty-four C.E.O.s of Fortune 500 companies were women, and only three were black, as was noted by Bloomberg Businessweek.
But Bloomberg doesn’t really see color. If you were to “ask me who I am,” he writes, “I would say American. I wouldn’t think of saying Russian American, white American, or male American. For me, no modifier is necessary. Is it that I am assimilated? It just never occurs to me to think I need to be. I am part of this country. Where my parents came from, my lineage, doesn’t define me.” He dislikes it when people describe the United States as a mosaic rather than a melting pot: “The separatism it creates is not good for society.” In the 1997 edition of the book, he objects to the “voluntary segregation allowed (compared to what used to be imposed) in school dormitories and clubs”—he doesn’t appear to have any problem with the de-facto segregation of the white fraternity system—and the “misguided teaching in ‘native’ languages to immigrant children (as opposed to forcing them to learn the language they’ll need for success).”
When Bloomberg was a kid, in Medford, he played with a Dalmatian at the fire station and joked around with the police officers who handled traffic on the city’s streets. “While officers’ uniforms create fear in many parts of the world, the familiarity born of constant interaction always left me feeling the wearers were employees of ‘we the citizens’ and there to protect and serve,” he writes. Ah, one thinks: constant interaction. Perhaps that is what Bloomberg had in mind when he put in place the stop-and-frisk policy, which involved, in Bloomberg’s own words, directing cops to go “where the crime is, which means in minority neighborhoods,” and find “male minorities, sixteen to twenty-five” (a description that fits “ninety-five per cent” of “murderers and murder victims,” Bloomberg claimed, in 2015) so they can “throw them up against the wall and frisk them.” Bloomberg doesn’t address stop-and-frisk in the revised edition of his book; he spends only twelve pages, out of two hundred and thirty-seven, on his three-term tenure as mayor of New York City. In any case, when the new edition was published, he was still defending the policy, as he continued to do until late last year.


newyorker--2020-03-02--Joe Biden’s South Carolina Win, Black Voters, and the Democrats’ Way Forward

When Representative Jim Clyburn stepped onto the stage at Trident Technical College , in North Charleston , last Wednesday , to endorse Joe Biden in South Carolina ’ s Democratic Presidential primary , he wasn ’ t simply throwing his influence as the highest-ranking African-American member of Congress behind his longtime ally , he was offering an answer to a question that has bedevilled the Palmetto State and , for that matter , the entire Democratic Party since it began fielding would-be successors to Donald Trump .
How much , everyone seemed to wonder , of the old order still @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Senator Bernie Sanders , an uppercase Independent and a lowercase socialist , and the concomitant notion of “ Berning down ” the institutional centrism of the Democratic Party , which favored Hillary Clinton four years ago , has raised serious , maybe even existential , questions about the future direction of the Party .
In the three previous Democratic contests this year , the best that the moderate wing of the Party had achieved was a chaotic , inconclusive draw in Iowa , where Pete Buttigieg , whose appeal among African-American voters @ @ @ @ @ @ @ proved unusually popular in school-gymnasium and church-basement caucus spots across the state .
All of this is to say that a lot of people had a lot of reasons to pay close attention to what Clyburn had to say last week .
And he said a lot .
Emily Clyburn , who had been married to the congressman for fifty-eight years—they met when they were students and got arrested at the same civil-rights protest—died in September .
The veneer of seniority and gravitas that accompanies Clyburn was burnished by an additional layer of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ meant something that he framed his endorsement of Biden not only in terms of his own relationship with the former Vice-President but also in the context of his late wife ’ s regard for him .
“ We often talked about the leadership of this country , ” Clyburn said .
“ And there ’ s nobody who Emily loved as a leader in this country more than she loved Joe Biden.
” Yet Clyburn ’ s endorsement is only one factor in what happened in South Carolina , where Biden won forty-eight @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
That result came in the context of questions about how much sway the Democratic leadership and the traditional brokers of black support hold in the current era , particularly in a state like South Carolina , where the Democratic electorate is sixty per cent African-American .
Twelve years ago , the last time there was a competitive primary in the state , the Party establishment and some traditional black leaders , including members of the clergy , lined up early behind Hillary Clinton .
Barack Obama , relying on his background as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ around the establishment , garnering support from grassroots community figures and building a parallel network that , in the end , gave him a twenty-nine-point margin of victory over Clinton ( and nearly forty points over John Edwards , the former senator from North Carolina who is a South Carolinian by birth ) .
The possibility that a similar rejection of an establishment candidate might occur this year was not far from the minds of people I spoke to in Charleston .
Anton Gunn , a former state representative who ran Obama ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , told me , ahead of the vote , “ I would not be surprised to see some elected official endorse one candidate , and his entire district vote for someone else.
” Jaime Harrison , an African-American Democrat who is running to unseat Senator Lindsey Graham this November and chaired the South Carolina Democratic Party from 2013 through 2017 , said , “ I think , compared to the last time around , there were many more people who were undecided very late in this election , compared to what I saw @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2008.
” But Harrison , who also served as an aide to Clyburn from 2003 to 2008 , added that the congressman is “ the only person that has significant sway ” in the state in terms of influencing voters , “ and that ’ s because he ’ s just so well-respected across that state.
” The race between Harrison and Graham is a window into how closely South Carolina ’ s politics have been wired into national concerns .
In 2017 , Graham ’ s approval rating among South Carolina Republicans @ @ @ @ @ @ @ years later , he had a seventy-four-per-cent approval rating among the same voters , a rise widely attributed to his close embrace of Donald Trump .
That pivot also generated antipathy from Democrats and voters far outside South Carolina , which is one reason that Harrison was able to raise more than three million dollars last quarter , a record for a Democratic Senate challenger in South Carolina .
When Trump arrived in North Charleston to hold a rally the night before the primary—in which he basically live-trolled the entire slate of Democrats @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Scott , the state ’ s junior senator ( and one of the three current African-American members of that chamber ) , were seated prominently near the front .
Meanwhile , polls had shown Sanders eating into Biden ’ s support among black voters .
Outside the Charleston Charter School , in the North Central neighborhood , I spoke to a man named Christopher President .
( Me : “ Like President of the United States ?
” Him : “ Not like this President .
Maybe like the one we had four @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him whom he ’ d voted for , he replied , “ Crazy Bernie , ” but then made sure I understood where he was coming from , adding , “ I don ’ t mean crazy in a bad way.
” He was appropriating Donald Trump ’ s insult for the current Democratic front-runner .
“ I believe , if he gets into the seat , he ’ d do everything he said he ’ d do , ” President said .
He echoed what other Sanders supporters in and around the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his part , has welcomed a challenge from Sanders .
South Carolina has an open primary , and , on Friday night , Trump instructed the Republican faithful in South Carolina to vote for Sanders .
This meant that Trump was telling people to help a man he has called a threat to the American way of life win the Democratic nomination .
Even if that was because Trump thinks he can more easily beat Sanders , such a cynical message is likely to have troubled some Republicans .
Further complicating matters , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ set up shop in South Carolina , hoping that it could ignite a movement there .
Steyer and his wife had embedded in the state and engaged in the kind of retail politicking that other campaigns couldn ’ t afford in terms of time , and certainly not in terms of money .
Gunn told me that the prevailing wisdom was that Steyer would more like to take votes from Biden than he would from Sanders .
The Biden campaign limped into Columbia hemorrhaging cash , and , after failing to win any @ @ @ @ @ @ @ able to fully leverage the black support in South Carolina that had turned Barack Obama into a front-runner in 2008 .
It is said that nothing succeeds like success , but it ’ s equally true that nothing loses like loss .
Twelve years ago , Obama ’ s victory in Iowa generated a cascade of support in South Carolina .
Black voters , observing his ability to cross over with white voters , reasoned that a vote for him would not be just an exercise in racial symbolism .
Biden faced the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Iowa , fifth in New Hampshire , and second in Nevada , the worry was that black voters in South Carolina would begin seeing his campaign as a dead letter .
Gunn had put together a focus group of black women— “ If I talk to ten or fifteen black women and they don ’ t like you , you ain ’ t got no shot , ” he said—but he saw no real pattern of preference for a candidate , even heading into the last week of the campaign .
Even @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to Biden , noted that he had encountered many young African-Americans who were undecided about whom to vote for in the days ahead of the election .

When Representative Jim Clyburn stepped onto the stage at Trident Technical College, in North Charleston, last Wednesday, to endorse Joe Biden in South Carolina’s Democratic Presidential primary, he wasn’t simply throwing his influence as the highest-ranking African-American member of Congress behind his longtime ally, he was offering an answer to a question that has bedevilled the Palmetto State and, for that matter, the entire Democratic Party since it began fielding would-be successors to Donald Trump. How much, everyone seemed to wonder, of the old order still stands? The ascent to front-runner status of Senator Bernie Sanders, an uppercase Independent and a lowercase socialist, and the concomitant notion of “Berning down” the institutional centrism of the Democratic Party, which favored Hillary Clinton four years ago, has raised serious, maybe even existential, questions about the future direction of the Party. In the three previous Democratic contests this year, the best that the moderate wing of the Party had achieved was a chaotic, inconclusive draw in Iowa, where Pete Buttigieg, whose appeal among African-American voters had fluctuated between tiny and minuscule, proved unusually popular in school-gymnasium and church-basement caucus spots across the state. All of this is to say that a lot of people had a lot of reasons to pay close attention to what Clyburn had to say last week. And he said a lot.
Emily Clyburn, who had been married to the congressman for fifty-eight years—they met when they were students and got arrested at the same civil-rights protest—died in September. The veneer of seniority and gravitas that accompanies Clyburn was burnished by an additional layer of public sympathy, which is why it meant something that he framed his endorsement of Biden not only in terms of his own relationship with the former Vice-President but also in the context of his late wife’s regard for him. “We often talked about the leadership of this country,” Clyburn said. “And there’s nobody who Emily loved as a leader in this country more than she loved Joe Biden.”
Yet Clyburn’s endorsement is only one factor in what happened in South Carolina, where Biden won forty-eight per cent of the vote on Saturday. That result came in the context of questions about how much sway the Democratic leadership and the traditional brokers of black support hold in the current era, particularly in a state like South Carolina, where the Democratic electorate is sixty per cent African-American. Twelve years ago, the last time there was a competitive primary in the state, the Party establishment and some traditional black leaders, including members of the clergy, lined up early behind Hillary Clinton. Barack Obama, relying on his background as a community organizer, did an end-run around the establishment, garnering support from grassroots community figures and building a parallel network that, in the end, gave him a twenty-nine-point margin of victory over Clinton (and nearly forty points over John Edwards, the former senator from North Carolina who is a South Carolinian by birth).
The possibility that a similar rejection of an establishment candidate might occur this year was not far from the minds of people I spoke to in Charleston. Anton Gunn, a former state representative who ran Obama’s 2008 primary campaign in South Carolina, told me, ahead of the vote, “I would not be surprised to see some elected official endorse one candidate, and his entire district vote for someone else.” Jaime Harrison, an African-American Democrat who is running to unseat Senator Lindsey Graham this November and chaired the South Carolina Democratic Party from 2013 through 2017, said, “I think, compared to the last time around, there were many more people who were undecided very late in this election, compared to what I saw in ’16, or compared to 2008.” But Harrison, who also served as an aide to Clyburn from 2003 to 2008, added that the congressman is “the only person that has significant sway” in the state in terms of influencing voters, “and that’s because he’s just so well-respected across that state.”
The race between Harrison and Graham is a window into how closely South Carolina’s politics have been wired into national concerns. In 2017, Graham’s approval rating among South Carolina Republicans was below fifty per cent. Two years later, he had a seventy-four-per-cent approval rating among the same voters, a rise widely attributed to his close embrace of Donald Trump. That pivot also generated antipathy from Democrats and voters far outside South Carolina, which is one reason that Harrison was able to raise more than three million dollars last quarter, a record for a Democratic Senate challenger in South Carolina. When Trump arrived in North Charleston to hold a rally the night before the primary—in which he basically live-trolled the entire slate of Democrats vying to replace him—both Graham and Tim Scott, the state’s junior senator (and one of the three current African-American members of that chamber), were seated prominently near the front.
Meanwhile, polls had shown Sanders eating into Biden’s support among black voters. Outside the Charleston Charter School, in the North Central neighborhood, I spoke to a man named Christopher President. (Me: “Like President of the United States?” Him: “Not like this President. Maybe like the one we had four years ago.”) When I asked him whom he’d voted for, he replied, “Crazy Bernie,” but then made sure I understood where he was coming from, adding, “I don’t mean crazy in a bad way.” He was appropriating Donald Trump’s insult for the current Democratic front-runner. “I believe, if he gets into the seat, he’d do everything he said he’d do,” President said. He echoed what other Sanders supporters in and around the city told me. Trump, for his part, has welcomed a challenge from Sanders. South Carolina has an open primary, and, on Friday night, Trump instructed the Republican faithful in South Carolina to vote for Sanders. This meant that Trump was telling people to help a man he has called a threat to the American way of life win the Democratic nomination. Even if that was because Trump thinks he can more easily beat Sanders, such a cynical message is likely to have troubled some Republicans.
Further complicating matters, Tom Steyer’s campaign had also set up shop in South Carolina, hoping that it could ignite a movement there. Steyer and his wife had embedded in the state and engaged in the kind of retail politicking that other campaigns couldn’t afford in terms of time, and certainly not in terms of money. Gunn told me that the prevailing wisdom was that Steyer would more like to take votes from Biden than he would from Sanders.
The Biden campaign limped into Columbia hemorrhaging cash, and, after failing to win any of the previous contests, was not able to fully leverage the black support in South Carolina that had turned Barack Obama into a front-runner in 2008. It is said that nothing succeeds like success, but it’s equally true that nothing loses like loss. Twelve years ago, Obama’s victory in Iowa generated a cascade of support in South Carolina. Black voters, observing his ability to cross over with white voters, reasoned that a vote for him would not be just an exercise in racial symbolism. Biden faced the opposite dilemma: after coming in fourth in Iowa, fifth in New Hampshire, and second in Nevada, the worry was that black voters in South Carolina would begin seeing his campaign as a dead letter. Gunn had put together a focus group of black women—“If I talk to ten or fifteen black women and they don’t like you, you ain’t got no shot,” he said—but he saw no real pattern of preference for a candidate, even heading into the last week of the campaign. Even Clyburn, as he gave his endorsement to Biden, noted that he had encountered many young African-Americans who were undecided about whom to vote for in the days ahead of the election.
But, on Wednesday night, CNN held a town-hall event with the candidates at the Memminger Auditorium, in Charleston, which is about eight blocks away from Emanuel A.M.E. Church, where, in 2015, nine congregants at Bible study were shot and killed by a white supremacist. In the audience on Wednesday was the Reverend Anthony Thompson, whose wife, Myra, had been among the victims. His devotion to her even in death has been notable; he tends a church garden dedicated to her and occasionally still speaks of her in the present tense. Thompson asked Biden about his faith and what role it would play in making decisions for the country. Biden, who met Thompson after the murders and occasionally calls to check on him, responded in the context of his own experiences with grief. “Reverend, I kinda know what it’s like to lose family,” Biden said. He reminded Thompson that, after he and Obama had attended the funeral service for Clementa Pinckney, the pastor and state senator killed in the church, he’d returned that Sunday to attend service. “I’d just lost my son,” he said. “I wanted some hope.” He pointed to his awe that the family members forgave the white supremacist who had killed their loved ones, then quoted Kierkegaard: “Faith sees best in the dark.” Biden concluded by saying that Thompson and the other family members were to thank for finally getting the Confederate flag removed from the state capitol in South Carolina, a line that brought the crowd in the auditorium to its feet.
It was a notable moment to observe on television, but a galvanic one in person, as Marjory Wentworth, a poet and professor at the College of Charleston, told me. “It felt like there was no one in the room besides Joe Biden and Anthony Thompson,” she said. On the trail, Biden has sometimes seemed as if he’s lost the pop on his fastball; the moment reminded the audience of who he is, and it highlighted the contrast between him—a man who has endured enough grief to understand it like a native tongue—and Trump, a man who, speaking in North Charleston two nights later, claimed that fears of the coronavirus are driven by the Democrats’ “new hoax.”


newyorker--2020-03-02--On the Campaign Trail with Michael Bloomberg, Money Talks

The overarching theme of Michael Bloomberg ’ s Presidential campaign is money .
“ Somebody recently criticized me for spending all this money , ” the billionaire former mayor of New York City said , at a rally in Oklahoma City , on Friday afternoon .
“ I said , ‘ Now , wait a second , you said you don ’ t like Donald Trump .
I ’ m spending my money to get rid of Donald Trump .
You want me to spend more , or less ?
’ The guy said , ‘ Oh , spend more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , when Joe Biden , the moderate former Vice-President , was looking strong , and Bernie Sanders , the insurgent leftist senator , was lost in the crowd , Bloomberg had , after much speculation , declined to enter the Democratic Presidential field .
In November , with the fortunes of Biden and Sanders seemingly reversed , Bloomberg , the world ’ s ninth-richest man , abruptly changed his mind .
He declared his candidacy , and a strategy : he would skip the first four states to vote and put all his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a strong showing in those contests—California , Texas , Virginia , and North Carolina are among the states voting—would justify his presence in the race .
His pitch to primary voters is explicitly that he will stop Trump at any cost—emphasis on the cost—and , only slightly less explicitly , that he will stop Sanders at any cost .
Over the past thirteen weeks , Bloomberg has gone on a spending spree of historic proportions , parting with a half-billion of his sixty-billion-dollar fortune to hire thousands of staff and pay them high @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rank-and-file field organizers six thousand dollars a month . )
He has offices and staff in forty-three states and territories , including , as his team likes to point out , in many places that haven ’ t ever seen a Presidential campaign set up shop during a primary ; disseminated countless ads for him online and on television ; hired meme makers and influencers to push and occasionally break the envelope ; and the campaign has supplied copious snacks and food spreads to his supporters , his employees , and the pack @ @ @ @ @ @ @ move .
“ There ’ s no better investment I can make in the future of our country than spending to defeat Donald Trump , ” Bloomberg told a crowd at a restaurant in Houston on Thursday morning .
“ And if you think this campaign is expensive , just imagine what four more years of Donald Trump would cost us.
” “ Resources ” is a word you hear again and again at Bloomberg ’ s events .
He ’ s got them , he ’ ll use them , and he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ You ’ ve all heard the slogan ‘ Mike Will Get It Done , ’ ” he said in Houston , referring to his campaign ’ s tagline .
“ And if you haven ’ t heard it then we spent a lot of money for nothing.
” At the Houston event , by a buffet of breakfast tacos and fancy doughnuts , I met a woman named Christine Russell-Pichardo .
Forty years old and a native of Louisiana , Russell-Pichardo sees something of herself in Bloomberg .
She spent years managing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ check-cashing center ; recently , she opened her own business , Russell ’ s Consulting and Associates , offering clients a variety of accounting and tax services .
( She ’ s had business cards printed up with a slogan of her own : “ Where the possibilities are endless.
” ) To explain her support for Bloomberg , Russell-Pichardo told me of times when she didn ’ t know where her next meal would come from , of leaving her home state after Hurricane Katrina .
“ He started , in a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his own business , ” she said .
Bloomberg grew up with middle-class parents in Medford , Massachusetts , and was laid off from Salomon Brothers at thirty-nine , with a ten-million-dollar severance check , before he started his namesake financial-information company .
“ I started from the bottom , as well , ” Russell-Pichardo said .
Since Trump ’ s election , Bloomberg has become the biggest single donor to the Democratic Party and liberal causes .
That ’ s bought him much goodwill , even among unlikely allies .
The Times @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of 2018 , after Bloomberg made some public comments skeptical of the # MeToo movement , the political group EMILY ’ s List , which supports women running for public office , had an internal debate about whether Bloomberg , a major donor to the group , should keep his speaking spot at a fund-raiser luncheon .
In the end , he spoke .
His candidacy is , in some ways , a test of how much of the civic network he has funded can be converted into electoral support .
Among the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hundred cities around the country .
He has a natural constituency among grateful mayors , many of whom have come out and endorsed him .
“ He is considered the mayor ’ s mayor , ” Jim Strickland , the mayor of Memphis , told residents of his city on Friday , introducing Bloomberg at an event .
“ We mayors support Mayor Bloomberg because we want to emulate his success in New York.
” Then Bloomberg got up and thanked Strickland for the introduction .
“ It was exactly the way I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a joke he deploys at nearly every stop , and which never really lands .
I asked a young man in a flat-brimmed baseball cap what he thought of Bloomberg .
“ He brought the beans in in New York City , ” he said , “ and I think he could bring the beans in nationally.
” At times , Bloomberg sounds like an investor in the Democratic Party who is worried about his returns , and at other times he sounds like he just wants more credit for what he ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he tells people that his money supported the campaigns of twenty-one Democrats who helped flip the House in 2018 .
That money helped make Nancy Pelosi Speaker , he says , and led to Donald Trump ’ s impeachment .
This is a tone that predates impeachment , and even his Presidential run .
In August , at a gun-control event in Des Moines , Iowa , put on by the Bloomberg-supported groups Everytown for Gun Safety and Moms Demand Action , Bloomberg told a crowd of volunteers that he had run into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ backstage , after her appearance .
“ I just said to Senator Warren on the way out , ‘ Senator , congratulations—it was a nice talk , ’ ” he said .
“ ‘ But , just to remind you , if my company hadn ’ t been successful , we wouldn ’ t be here today—so enough with this stuff.
’ ” One could imagine a more effective Bloomberg candidacy , if not for his presence on the stump .
He is not a bad public speaker as much as he is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his speeches , barely pausing for applause lines .
He offers listeners unhelpful digressions or weird asides .
In Bentonville , Arkansas , he touted how he raised teacher ’ s salaries in New York City .
“ You think the teachers ’ union is happy ?
” he said , going off script .
“ Enough is never enough , don ’ t ever make that mistake.
” ( This echoed a line he used against Warren during a debate last week , when she pressed Bloomberg on his company ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ claims to sign non-disclosure agreements : “ With this senator , enough is never enough.
” ) In Charlotte , North Carolina , he told an assembly of the state ’ s Democrats that , after his speech , he was “ going to go get some little sleep.
” He takes no questions from audiences , and his appearances are rarely longer than half an hour .
Bloomberg ’ s campaign is aimed at moderate Democrats and moderate Republicans , the kinds of people who profess to being socially liberal and fiscally @ @ @ @ @ @ @ party that currently supports Bernie Sanders .
“ People often mistake the base for the left flank of the party—they are not the same thing , ” Dan Kanninen , the campaign ’ s states director , said .
“ I believe we need to improve turnout , but I don ’ t believe we improve turnout running to the far left.
” The idea is partly that Trump is so loathsome to the left that they ’ ll have no choice but to support whoever the nominee is , and partly that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of enthusiasm on the left by picking up people in the middle .
In eastern Tennessee , in an airplane hangar where the food spread included pulled pork and banana-cream pie , I met Philip Brandt , a retired nuclear-and-environmental-reclamation-cleanup scientist .
Phil considers himself a centrist , and he told me that he ’ d been trying to pry his more conservative neighbor off Trumpism , sending him stuff to read .
He ’ d tried to convince his neighbor to consider Bloomberg , and to come to the event with him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ d rather go to China and lick doorknobs , ’ ” Brandt told me .
Bloomberg likes to say that he is not a typical politician , but he most resembles many of the other Democratic candidates—both progressives and moderates—in the way that he announced his candidacy in one breath and produced a belated apology for a controversial aspect of his record in the next .
He was mayor of New York at the height of the stop-and-frisk era , when innocent black and Latino men were stopped and harassed by police @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , according to a statistical analysis conducted as part of a lawsuit that successfully challenged the practice .
After defending stop-and-frisk for years , Bloomberg apologized for it last month .
“ He owned his white privilege in a way that was probably very surprising for a lot of people , ” Kanninen told me .
But Bloomberg ’ s language on this topic occasionally slips from personal remorse to crisis-communication speak .
“ I ’ ve apologized , ” Bloomberg said , during a CNN town hall last week .
“ I @ @ @ @ @ @ @ leaders of the African-American community to try to get their perspective on it and what I should have done , and how I can rephrase it .
”

Bloomberg’s campaign is aimed at moderate Democrats and moderate Republicans, the kinds of people who profess to being socially liberal and fiscally conservative, not the third of the party that currently supports Bernie Sanders. “People often mistake the base for the left flank of the party—they are not the same thing,” Dan Kanninen, the campaign’s states director, said. “I believe we need to improve turnout, but I don’t believe we improve turnout running to the far left.” The idea is partly that Trump is so loathsome to the left that they’ll have no choice but to support whoever the nominee is, and partly that Bloomberg will make up for any lack of enthusiasm on the left by picking up people in the middle. In eastern Tennessee, in an airplane hangar where the food spread included pulled pork and banana-cream pie, I met Philip Brandt, a retired nuclear-and-environmental-reclamation-cleanup scientist. Phil considers himself a centrist, and he told me that he’d been trying to pry his more conservative neighbor off Trumpism, sending him stuff to read. He’d tried to convince his neighbor to consider Bloomberg, and to come to the event with him. “He said, ‘I’d rather go to China and lick doorknobs,’ ” Brandt told me.
Bloomberg likes to say that he is not a typical politician, but he most resembles many of the other Democratic candidates—both progressives and moderates—in the way that he announced his candidacy in one breath and produced a belated apology for a controversial aspect of his record in the next. He was mayor of New York at the height of the stop-and-frisk era, when innocent black and Latino men were stopped and harassed by police hundreds of thousands of times each year, according to a statistical analysis conducted as part of a lawsuit that successfully challenged the practice. After defending stop-and-frisk for years, Bloomberg apologized for it last month. “He owned his white privilege in a way that was probably very surprising for a lot of people,” Kanninen told me. But Bloomberg’s language on this topic occasionally slips from personal remorse to crisis-communication speak. “I’ve apologized,” Bloomberg said, during a CNN town hall last week. “I’ve met with a number of leaders of the African-American community to try to get their perspective on it and what I should have done, and how I can rephrase it.”
It’s in this context that Bloomberg has put forward a plan he calls the Greenwood Initiative, which is designed to address “systemic bias that has kept many Black Americans from gaining wealth.” It’s aimed at increasing black home and business ownership, and is based, in part, on the work of Geoffrey Canada, the noted New York City activist and reformer who has endorsed Bloomberg despite their past differences on stop-and-frisk. The effort is named after the neighborhood in North Tulsa, Oklahoma, which in 1921 was the site of a horrific attack on black residents. “There was a group of white thugs who came through in the middle of the night, burnt the town to the ground, and killed two hundred people,” Bloomberg said last week, during a CNN town hall in South Carolina. “I mean, there’s been terrible things going on in this country.” But there’s something unsettling about a mayor who oversaw racial injustice in the modern era resting his racial-justice plan on an injustice that took place a hundred years ago, halfway across the country. Why shouldn’t Bloomberg, the Presidential candidate, tell us what he’s learned about Rikers Island rather than Tulsa, Oklahoma? I put this question to Kanninen. “What people really want, mostly, is not to relitigate things but to move forward,” he said. “What most of this country wants is a cooling rod in the teapot.”
Stephen Benjamin, the first black mayor of Columbia, South Carolina, and a Bloomberg campaign co-chair, told me that, while stop-and-frisk was a real issue, it wasn’t the whole picture of Bloomberg’s tenure. He rattled off statistics, like the fact that, during Bloomberg’s administration, the number of minority-owned businesses certified to do business with New York City quadrupled. “It’s impossible to talk about stop-and-frisk and not talk about the fact that juvenile detention went down under Mike,” he said. “I think it’s fundamentally unfair to ignore those successes.”
The other aspect of Bloomberg’s record that is being reëxamined in the context of his Presidential campaign is his history of sexist comments in the workplace. In 1998, Sekiko Sakai Garrison, who was then a sales representative at Bloomberg LP, filed a lawsuit alleging that Bloomberg, upon learning that she was pregnant, told her, “Kill it.” Garrison also alleged, among other things, that Bloomberg had said that he would have sex with her “in a minute.” He’s also been accused of once, when he was mayor, blurting out “nice tits” at a woman in passing, and, this week, Business Insider reported that it had spoken to several dozen women who described an oppressive atmosphere at Bloomberg LP. In recent days, women who have worked for Bloomberg for decades, at City Hall, at his philanthropic organizations, and at his businesses, have spoken at campaign events, attesting to the support they received from him. Bloomberg himself has at times dismissed the issue. At a debate last month in Las Vegas, when Warren criticized his treatment of women, Bloomberg said, “None of them accuse me of doing anything other than, maybe, they didn’t like a joke I told.” On “60 Minutes” this weekend, when pressed, he offered, “If I annoyed somebody or hurt somebody, I apologize. I can’t go rewrite history. I can only tell you, now it is a different world.”
Democrats have spent four years trying to learn the right lesson from 2016, when the Republican Party’s implacable base propelled a shameless billionaire into the White House. As a candidate for the 2020 Democratic Presidential nomination, Bernie Sanders has made the case that what the Party needs to do in response is to nominate someone who encourages the Democratic Party’s own implacable base. With that message, he’s attracted many supporters—going into Super Tuesday, many polls show him winning a plurality of Democrats. Bloomberg is putting forward a different proposition: what the Democratic Party needs to get rid of Donald Trump, his candidacy suggests, is its own billionaire. Bloomberg’s supporters bristle at the comparison, noting that he is running for President after making billions as a businessman, running the country’s largest city, and funding efforts in gun control, climate change, and public health. Donald Trump ran as a reality-TV star, seemingly on a lark. But it’s the nature of immense wealth that any attempt to buy your way into office will look, at least in part, like a lark.
In any case, in just the past few days, Bloomberg’s run has begun to look very different. After Biden’s decisive victory in South Carolina, people suddenly realized that the former Vice-President might well end Super Tuesday in a tie or better with Sanders, in terms of votes and delegates. On Saturday night, just after the South Carolina results came in, the Bloomberg campaign, seemingly wary of being hit with the spoiler tag, told reporters that their analysis suggested Bloomberg’s presence on the ballot would do more to hurt Sanders than Biden. There was more bad news: South Carolina exit polls showed that, among Democratic candidates, Bloomberg was the least liked. On Sunday morning, Bloomberg travelled to Selma, Alabama, to take part in the annual commemorative march across the Edmund Pettus Bridge, the site of Bloody Sunday. He spoke at a few events in town, and got a pretty tepid reception. “You have to remember that Mike didn’t campaign in South Carolina,” Benjamin told me. “I walked the bridge with him. People were excited to see him. People were very excited to see him.”
In the current climate, you can’t rule a billionaire out of anything. But February started with the Bloomberg campaign thinking about success in places like California, Colorado, and Utah, and ended with more circumscribed ambitions. It was difficult to say where Bloomberg might win on Super Tuesday. When he got in the race, to head off criticism of his self-financing advantage, Bloomberg declared that he would keep office space and staff available in key battleground states until the election in November, even if he isn’t the nominee, in service of whoever is. Regardless of what happens on Tuesday, Bloomberg will have a significant role to play in the balance of power in the Senate and whether Trump keeps the White House. His influence, however, might present a complication for Sanders, whose campaign has already pledged to reject the billionaire’s support. “It’s fine with me,” Bloomberg told the Houston Chronicle this weekend, reacting to the Sanders campaign’s stance. “You’re saving me a lot of money.”
This piece has been updated to include Bloomberg’s comment on “60 Minutes.”


newyorker--2020-03-02--The Many Iterations of Michael Bloomberg, C.E.O., Mayor, and Presidential Hopeful

Eleanor Randolph finished her biography of Michael Bloomberg in June , 2019 , just as the former mayor decided not to run for President .
“ He didn ’ t want to go on an apology tour , ” Randolph tells David Remnick .
Bloomberg knew that he would be called to answer for his vigorous pursuit of unconstitutional stop-and-frisk policing , accusations against him of sexual misconduct , and his history as a Republican .
Ultimately , Bloomberg did enter the race , and he has spent more than four hundred million dollars on political ads to defeat another @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Donald Trump .
Randolph and Andrea Bernstein , a reporter for WNYC who covered Bloomberg ’ s three terms as mayor , join Remnick to discuss the candidate ’ s time in Gracie Mansion , his philosophy of governing , and his philanthropy .
Trump ’ s political contributions have been unabashedly transactional , but Bloomberg ’ s generous philanthropy also has an expected return .
“ All the money that he gave to philanthropies and charities were a way of doing good in the world , sure , but they were also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as mayor , ” Bernstein says .
“ Everything with Bloomberg , there ’ s a countervailing thing .
Something benefits somebody : it also might benefit him , it also might benefit billionaires from Russia.
” Eleanor Randolph is the author of “ The Many Lives of Michael Bloomberg.
” Andrea Bernstein ’ s book is “ American Oligarchs : The Kushners , the Trumps , and the Marriage of Money and Power .
”

Photograph by Frank Franklin II / AP
Eleanor Randolph finished her biography of Michael Bloomberg in June, 2019, just as the former mayor decided not to run for President. “He didn’t want to go on an apology tour,” Randolph tells David Remnick. Bloomberg knew that he would be called to answer for his vigorous pursuit of unconstitutional stop-and-frisk policing, accusations against him of sexual misconduct, and his history as a Republican. Ultimately, Bloomberg did enter the race, and he has spent more than four hundred million dollars on political ads to defeat another New York billionaire, the incumbent, Donald Trump. Randolph and Andrea Bernstein, a reporter for WNYC who covered Bloomberg’s three terms as mayor, join Remnick to discuss the candidate’s time in Gracie Mansion, his philosophy of governing, and his philanthropy. Trump’s political contributions have been unabashedly transactional, but Bloomberg’s generous philanthropy also has an expected return. “All the money that he gave to philanthropies and charities were a way of doing good in the world, sure, but they were also a way of making him more powerful as mayor,” Bernstein says. “Everything with Bloomberg, there’s a countervailing thing. Something benefits somebody: it also might benefit him, it also might benefit billionaires from Russia.”
Eleanor Randolph is the author of “The Many Lives of Michael Bloomberg.” Andrea Bernstein’s book is “American Oligarchs: The Kushners, the Trumps, and the Marriage of Money and Power.”


newyorker--2020-03-02--How a Pair of Investigative Reporters Are Trying to Save the Chicago Tribune

On an afternoon in early January , David Jackson and Gary Marx , the Chicago Tribune ’ s premier investigative reporters , were huddled at a round table , making phone calls to some of the city ’ s economic élite .
Jackson and Marx are in their early sixties and have been working together for ten years .
Each answers the phone— “ This is David and Gary ” —as if they were a single entity .
Marx is loud , with a boisterous laugh , and Jackson is only slightly more subdued ; during interviews , when one @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the other soaks up the atmosphere before joining in .
In a conference room at the Tribune ’ s office , on the third floor of the Prudential Building , Marx opened a spreadsheet he ’ d put together—a list of eighty names—and dialled a source who runs a public-relations firm .
After some opening pleasantries , the conversation turned to the possible fate of the newspaper , which Marx described as facing “ an existential threat.
” In the final months of 2019 , Alden Global Capital , a New York-based hedge @ @ @ @ @ @ @ newspapers and stripping them of much of their staff , had acquired a large stake in Tribune Publishing , which amounted to thirty-two per cent of the company .
Because of a standstill agreement , Alden can ’ t purchase any more shares until June , and so Jackson and Marx figured that they had little time to find someone—or perhaps a consortium of individuals—to buy and ultimately save the Tribune .
The P.R .
flack promised to reach out to a client who ’ s in private equity .
“ We ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ explained .
“ Trying for miracles.
” It probably goes without saying : this is not a good time for local journalism .
It ’ s been buffeted by a perfect storm of economic and cultural forces , including declining circulation , reduced ad revenue , and a choreographed assault on the media by President Trump .
The past couple of months have been particularly dispiriting .
The McClatchy Company , which publishes thirty papers , including the Miami Herald and the Sacramento Bee , declared bankruptcy .
Trump , in his annual @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the Corporation for Public Broadcasting by 2023 , which would have an outsized impact on public-radio stations in small cities and towns .
In January , Warren Buffett announced that he ’ d given up on the newspaper business , and his company initiated the sale of its portfolio of thirty-one newspapers .
And now there are Alden ’ s efforts to purchase Tribune Publishing , which includes a number of other major newspapers such as the New York Daily News , the Baltimore Sun , the Hartford Courant , the Orlando @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Annapolis , Maryland , where , two years ago , a gunman killed four journalists and another employee .
One of the fundamental roles of a newspaper is to offer an honest assessment of the world around us , so that we might make informed decisions .
It helps create a common language , a common set of facts .
That ’ s not to say that local papers like the Tribune always get it right .
But , more often than not , the Tribune produces extraordinary work , from on-the-ground @ @ @ @ @ @ @ dogged coverage of corruption in the Illinois state legislature .
It ’ s not surprising that a majority of people still treasure their local-news outlets .
In a recent study , the Knight Foundation found that six in ten Americans consider their local newspaper a symbol of civic pride .
The Tribune , the city ’ s largest newspaper , with a combined print and digital circulation of roughly four hundred and fifty thousand , has been through some trying times .
At its peak , it employed just under seven hundred reporters @ @ @ @ @ @ @ two hundred and fifty .
Recently , the paper has endured a series of bungling owners .
“ I feel like it ’ s been a clown car , ” Jackson told me .
First there was the real-estate tycoon Sam Zell , whose leadership antics were documented in a hair-raising story by the former New York Times columnist David Carr .
According to two people present , a top executive hired by Zell offered a waitress at a bar a hundred dollars to expose her breasts ( The top executive denied that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the Tribune Company went into bankruptcy .
The company later split up into two separate entities : Tribune Media and Tribune Publishing , the newspaper arm .
Then came the local businessman Michael Ferro , who was convinced that artificial intelligence would change the news-gathering business—and renamed Tribune Publishing Tronc , which was universally ridiculed .
( The comedian John Oliver said that it sounded “ like the noise an ejaculating elephant makes.
” ) Ferro stepped down after being accused of sexual harassment .
Amid this turmoil , Jackson and Marx @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a series , in 2018 , about sexual assaults in Chicago ’ s public schools .
But their effort to save their newspaper from Alden could put their jobs at risk .
Two years ago , Alden , which had purchased the Denver Post , significantly reduced the size of the paper ’ s newsroom .
The paper ’ s editorial board responded by writing a blistering editorial , calling Alden “ vulture capitalists.
” When Chuck Plunkett , the editor of the editorial page , wrote a follow-up piece , a company @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
At the nearby Boulder Daily Camera , which was also purchased by Alden , the editorial-page editor was fired after self-publishing a piece upbraiding his new parent company .
Blair Kamin , the Tribune ’ s Pulitzer Prize-winning architecture critic , told me , “ There ’ s considerable courage in what Gary and David are doing.
” As a sign of what ’ s to come under Alden , the newspaper offered buyouts to employees—both Jackson and Marx chose not to take their offers .
In January , the reporters penned @ @ @ @ @ @ @ which they wrote that , if Alden gains control , “ Illinois ’ s most vulnerable people would lose a powerful guardian , its corrupt politicians would be freer to exploit and plunder , and this prairie metropolis would lose the common forum that binds together and lifts its citizens.
” A top editor at the Tribune had warned them against writing the piece , noting that they could be disciplined or worse .
Jackson , who is single , suggested to Marx , who has two children , that he could leave @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Marx kept his name on the piece . )
For Marx and Jackson , the best scenario for the Tribune was to try to find someone to step forward and pluck the paper away from Alden—which , by some estimates , would cost between a hundred and a hundred and fifty million dollars .
( Reporters at the Baltimore Sun have undertaken a similar effort . )
So they put together a list of civic-minded individuals with deep pockets or high-profile connections who might appreciate the need for strong local journalism .
They @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reporters are apt to do , and uncovered the identities of several Alden investors .
But when they made contact , they learned the investors no longer had money in Alden .
When I asked how they found those investors , Jackson started to explain— “ We used research services used by private-equity services ” —before Marx interrupted him .
“ Let ’ s leave it at that , ” he said .

On an afternoon in early January, David Jackson and Gary Marx, the Chicago Tribune’s premier investigative reporters, were huddled at a round table, making phone calls to some of the city’s economic élite. Jackson and Marx are in their early sixties and have been working together for ten years. Each answers the phone—“This is David and Gary”—as if they were a single entity. Marx is loud, with a boisterous laugh, and Jackson is only slightly more subdued; during interviews, when one of them is relentlessly asking questions, the other soaks up the atmosphere before joining in. In a conference room at the Tribune’s office, on the third floor of the Prudential Building, Marx opened a spreadsheet he’d put together—a list of eighty names—and dialled a source who runs a public-relations firm. After some opening pleasantries, the conversation turned to the possible fate of the newspaper, which Marx described as facing “an existential threat.”
In the final months of 2019, Alden Global Capital, a New York-based hedge fund that has a reputation for buying newspapers and stripping them of much of their staff, had acquired a large stake in Tribune Publishing, which amounted to thirty-two per cent of the company. Because of a standstill agreement, Alden can’t purchase any more shares until June, and so Jackson and Marx figured that they had little time to find someone—or perhaps a consortium of individuals—to buy and ultimately save the Tribune. The P.R. flack promised to reach out to a client who’s in private equity. “We’re dialling for dollars,” Marx explained. “Trying for miracles.”
It probably goes without saying: this is not a good time for local journalism. It’s been buffeted by a perfect storm of economic and cultural forces, including declining circulation, reduced ad revenue, and a choreographed assault on the media by President Trump. The past couple of months have been particularly dispiriting. The McClatchy Company, which publishes thirty papers, including the Miami Herald and the Sacramento Bee, declared bankruptcy. Trump, in his annual budget request, proposed slashing all funding to the Corporation for Public Broadcasting by 2023, which would have an outsized impact on public-radio stations in small cities and towns. In January, Warren Buffett announced that he’d given up on the newspaper business, and his company initiated the sale of its portfolio of thirty-one newspapers. And now there are Alden’s efforts to purchase Tribune Publishing, which includes a number of other major newspapers such as the New York Daily News, the Baltimore Sun, the Hartford Courant, the Orlando Sentinel, and the Capital Gazette, in Annapolis, Maryland, where, two years ago, a gunman killed four journalists and another employee.
One of the fundamental roles of a newspaper is to offer an honest assessment of the world around us, so that we might make informed decisions. It helps create a common language, a common set of facts. That’s not to say that local papers like the Tribune always get it right. But, more often than not, the Tribune produces extraordinary work, from on-the-ground reporting about Chicago’s violence to dogged coverage of corruption in the Illinois state legislature. It’s not surprising that a majority of people still treasure their local-news outlets. In a recent study, the Knight Foundation found that six in ten Americans consider their local newspaper a symbol of civic pride.
The Tribune, the city’s largest newspaper, with a combined print and digital circulation of roughly four hundred and fifty thousand, has been through some trying times. At its peak, it employed just under seven hundred reporters and editors; today it has around two hundred and fifty. Recently, the paper has endured a series of bungling owners. “I feel like it’s been a clown car,” Jackson told me. First there was the real-estate tycoon Sam Zell, whose leadership antics were documented in a hair-raising story by the former New York Times columnist David Carr. According to two people present, a top executive hired by Zell offered a waitress at a bar a hundred dollars to expose her breasts (The top executive denied that this incident occurred.) Under Zell, the Tribune Company went into bankruptcy. The company later split up into two separate entities: Tribune Media and Tribune Publishing, the newspaper arm. Then came the local businessman Michael Ferro, who was convinced that artificial intelligence would change the news-gathering business—and renamed Tribune Publishing Tronc, which was universally ridiculed. (The comedian John Oliver said that it sounded “like the noise an ejaculating elephant makes.”) Ferro stepped down after being accused of sexual harassment.
Amid this turmoil, Jackson and Marx have produced some remarkable journalism, including a series, in 2018, about sexual assaults in Chicago’s public schools. But their effort to save their newspaper from Alden could put their jobs at risk. Two years ago, Alden, which had purchased the Denver Post, significantly reduced the size of the paper’s newsroom.
The paper’s editorial board responded by writing a blistering editorial, calling Alden “vulture capitalists.” When Chuck Plunkett, the editor of the editorial page, wrote a follow-up piece, a company executive spiked it, and Plunkett resigned. At the nearby Boulder Daily Camera, which was also purchased by Alden, the editorial-page editor was fired after self-publishing a piece upbraiding his new parent company. Blair Kamin, the Tribune’s Pulitzer Prize-winning architecture critic, told me, “There’s considerable courage in what Gary and David are doing.”
As a sign of what’s to come under Alden, the newspaper offered buyouts to employees—both Jackson and Marx chose not to take their offers. In January, the reporters penned an Op-Ed for the Times, in which they wrote that, if Alden gains control, “Illinois’s most vulnerable people would lose a powerful guardian, its corrupt politicians would be freer to exploit and plunder, and this prairie metropolis would lose the common forum that binds together and lifts its citizens.” A top editor at the Tribune had warned them against writing the piece, noting that they could be disciplined or worse. Jackson, who is single, suggested to Marx, who has two children, that he could leave his name off the editorial. (Marx kept his name on the piece.)
For Marx and Jackson, the best scenario for the Tribune was to try to find someone to step forward and pluck the paper away from Alden—which, by some estimates, would cost between a hundred and a hundred and fifty million dollars. (Reporters at the Baltimore Sun have undertaken a similar effort.) So they put together a list of civic-minded individuals with deep pockets or high-profile connections who might appreciate the need for strong local journalism. They also began snooping around, as investigative reporters are apt to do, and uncovered the identities of several Alden investors. But when they made contact, they learned the investors no longer had money in Alden. When I asked how they found those investors, Jackson started to explain—“We used research services used by private-equity services”—before Marx interrupted him. “Let’s leave it at that,” he said.
A few weeks ago, I joined Marx as he met with Daniel Ash, an associate vice-president at the Chicago Community Trust, which, with $3.2 billion in assets, is the largest foundation exclusively dedicated to the Chicago area. Marx mentioned the case of the Philadelphia Inquirer, whose owner had donated the paper to a nonprofit entity. “I don’t know if a nonprofit model is the way to go,” Marx told Ash. “We’re not money people. We’re reporters.” Ash, who’s from Youngstown, Ohio, which, he pointed out, lost its local newspaper last summer, assured Marx that he understood the importance of wresting the Tribune from Alden’s grasp. “If you’re really thinking about the well-being of citizens, you need to think about systems,” he said. “And local journalism is essential to a community taking care of itself.” He promised Marx that he’d talk with other foundations in the city and some major philanthropists.
Marx looked at his watch. “We’re actually trying to finish a story while trying to save the paper,” he explained, laughing. “I’m leaving this meeting really hopeful for the first time in a while. We’re just not going down without a fight.”
Thus far, no one has stepped forward to save the Tribune. At a meeting in February, Rahm Emanuel, the city’s former mayor, who has been on the receiving end of some hard-hitting stories by the paper, acknowledged that “without a great newspaper we’ll be a second-rate city.” He told them, “I’m on it.” But nothing seems to have come of the effort. (Emanuel declined to talk to me for this story.) John Canning, a co-founder of Madison Dearborn Partners, a private-equity firm, received one of Marx’s and Jackson’s first calls. Though he had no interest in organizing a purchase of the Tribune, he put them in touch with someone whom he thought might. “The feeling’s pretty broad spread,” Canning told me. “It would be a real tragedy if we lost the Chicago Tribune.” Canning told me that “if there’s one guy who would be able to put this deal together, it would be Jeremy Halbreich,” the former chairman of the company that owned the Chicago Sun-Times and now the head of AIM Media Management LLC. In an e-mail, Halbreich told me, “I’m not involved in any efforts to save the Tribune.”
Marx and Jackson have heard their share of practical concerns from prospective saviors. Owning a newspaper isn’t a particularly lucrative position (although, according to them, the Tribune still makes money), and it can pose personal challenges. One individual told Jackson that he didn’t want to get in the crosshairs of Trump, as has happened to Jeff Bezos, the owner of the Washington Post. Their efforts have not garnered much community support, either. Matthew O’Shea, a city alderman, recently proposed that the city council call on a representative from Alden to testify about the company’s plans for the paper. Journalists on Twitter seemed excited by the move, O’Shea said, “but the general public doesn’t realize where this is at.”
This may be journalism’s greatest challenge: How do we get people, especially those outside of our profession, to care about its future? Have we become so locked into Trump’s daily hammer blows to our democratic house that we are neglecting the cracks in the foundation? Last week, I spoke on the phone with Ash, of the Chicago Community Trust. He told me that he couldn’t drum up any interest. “People don’t seem that moved by the situation,” he told me, clearly disheartened. They seem to believe that “if it goes out of business, it goes out of business.” He mused that if the Art Institute, the city’s grandest museum, were going under, the public would step up to save it. He said, “People would think it’s too important to fail.”