Earlier: Media Mole Rodeo

Media Mole Rodeo: Break Those Broncs

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This afternoon's entry shines an uncomfortable light on that exclusive bastion of uppitiness, the New Yorker. So what if it's the advertising department? We'd wager that working for Malcolm Gladwell is just as crazy. The sordid tale after the jump.

A few years ago, I worked as the assistant to two sales reps at the New Yorker. It was my first real job out of college, and I was so awestruck at being hired at such an august institution that I ignored some important warning signs—such as, they gave me less than 24 hours to make my decision, and they wanted me to start in, like, two days. Also, they were very circumspect about why the last person had left (I later found out she'd walked off the job in tears). But I ignored everything sketchy and signed up.

At first my bosses were really nice—almost suspiciously so. But they slowly started getting more and more psychotic. They'd yell at me for putting a sheet in the media kit in the wrong order, then tell me how great I was and take me out to get $75 pedicures. One of my bosses was also going through some weird family stuff—I got the feeling that her dad was batshit crazy—and I had to listen to her negotiating really personal stuff on the phone all the time. Also, I had to do all their expenses, and most of their "client lunches" and "spa treatments" were actually with their friends. They'd throw their crumpled cab receipts at me and tell me to just make up where they'd gone. All that was almost tolerable, but the breaking point was when one of them asked me to get tickets for an Elton John concert she wanted to take "clients" to. Well, she wouldn't let me use a ticket broker, and the best seats I could get—right after the tickets went on sale—weren't up to her standards. She started yelling at me (in the open office) that the tickets were unacceptable, then got the other woman to yell at me, too. I started crying and resolved then and there to get another job. When I finally gave notice, though, they both completely flipped and started talking shit about me, basically to my face. It just cemented my desire never, ever to work in advertising. Or for the New Yorker, for that matter.

Earlier: Malcolm Gladwell, Everyone Guilty of Stereotyping
Earlier: Glory Days of 'SNL' Pages

UPDATE: This is actually from The Morning News back in 2003, submitted to the mole-line by author Alan Baird, though its source wasn't attributed (or recognized by your ignroant editor). Gawker regrets the error.

1) John Belushi grips my blue tie, which is still attached to my neck, and drags me down the hall to his Saturday Night Live dressing room. The Windsor slipknot cinches ever tighter, and my vision becomes fuzzy around the edges. Dressing for my shift this morning, I never guessed the tie could be so easily converted into a deadly weapon.

John wanted to share a joint with someone (anyone!), and I happened to be the closest warm body. "C'mon, Tommy-boy. Rehearsal is over, and your work here is finished. Let's go get wasted."

But when you're the newest page on staff, and terrified of being caught, you try to make a show of resisting. At least when in public.

It's a classic case of mistaken identity. Tom is usually assigned to the Studio 8H desk during the week leading up to a live show, answering phones, taking messages, dealing with the steady stream of celebrities and hangers-on. And everyone says I look a lot like Tom. So the last images I see, before blacking out, are the smiling faces of two fellow pages, receding into the distance as I'm towed away. Those same two faces, now hovering above me and filled with concern, are also the first things I see upon returning to consciousness.

"Did I smoke with him?"

"No. He kept dragging until you turned blue and passed out. Why'd you resist?"

"This is a cool job. I didn't want to get canned."

They exchange knowing looks and mutter, "Rookie."

2) We're a lucky group of pages: our boss is hosting a weekend getaway at her summer cottage in the Hamptons. My colleague Robyn has gone outside to try the secluded swimming cove, but nobody else wants to break away from our showbiz gossip-fest in the rec room, so I decide to keep her company and head for the beach a few minutes later. Robyn emerges from her first dip when I arrive. There's no need to test the water; Robyn's exposed left nipple announces that it's quite chilly.

I'm not sure if she realizes the surf has tugged at her bikini top, so I gallantly offer my towel...after a short delay for gawking. She smirks up at me. Honi soit qui Malibu.

3) David Bowie and I manhandle his life-size plastic punching doll into the elevator. The next night, NBC's costumers will bolt David into this rigid contraption so he can spin and wobble across the stage on live television, while lip-synching one of the songs that made him into the icon known as Ziggy Stardust.

For a second, I gaze into Bowie's left eye and notice his famous blown pupil. "Why drag this all the way back to your hotel? The Props department could lock it up for you."

He laughs. "Nothing personal, but if it goes missing, I can't just buy another one down at the corner shop."

I giggle. "Good point."

I still look back on this comment as my best shot at the Melonhead Hall of Fame.

Nobody gives us a second glance as we struggle outside to the Plaza. The Thin White Duke and an anonymous melonhead are trying to stuff a six-foot-tall, brightly-colored punching doll into the back seat of a stretch limo, but New Yorkers, true to form, don't even notice this singular tableau. David turns, to say thanks for the help. Polite guy. My brain is churning at light speed, searching for another bon mot.

So I bring out the big guns: "Break a leg!" When David looks puzzled, I rush to explain: "Not now. Tomorrow night." He smiles and thanks me again.

Then his limousine is gone, and I'm left alone to compose my Hall of Fame acceptance speech.

4) Six of us are squeezed into the rented car, driving back from glorious day at the shore. It's very dark and very late; we all have sand in our sneakers. And salt on our lips. Especially Mindy.

Traffic is light on the Long Island Expressway, and somebody flips through several NYC radio stations, hoping to avoid the musical stylings of Billy Joel. When a few strange electronic notes ooze from the speakers, we all perk up. "Stop! Right there!" At first, the exotic music seems cold and inhuman, as though composed by aliens. But we gradually fall under its spell, almost holding our breaths; nobody is willing to interfere, even slightly, with the unworldly sounds. We sigh when the song finally ends, nearly twenty minutes later. Our short silence is broken by a whisper: "What the hell was that?" The deejay tells us (Tangerine Dream's "Tangram"), and I spend the next ten years looking for a copy.

5) The Grateful Dead begin psyching themselves up to perform 20 minutes before air, and by the time we let the audience take their seats, clouds of marijuana smoke in the entry hall have reduced visibility to five or ten feet at best.

Then the red "On Air" light starts blinking, and through the heavy double doors, I can hear SNL's house band rip into the theme music. Don Pardo's dulcet tones announce the Dead and their guest host. Later, I'll go inside to watch some of the sketches that have survived dress rehearsal, and none of us will miss the two musical performances. But for now, I stand in the empty hallway, sucking up a few lungfuls of second-hand reefer. After an earlier rehearsal, Jerry Garcia gave me one of his plastic guitar picks, and I run a finger along its triangular shape, resting securely in my pocket. This little treasure will look mighty fine, pasted into the ol' scrapbook.

Earlier: Maybe Don't Use Marci Klein As a Reference, FYI

In conjunction with your Marci Klein loves the big boobed white girl piece, she did have a buxom asian assistant for about a minute. After fully torturing her and making her cry on a regular basis, the assistant applied for other jobs and used Marci as a reference (with her blessing). When the assistant was called in for an interview at a new gig the HR people told her they had talked to Marci and get this....does the assistant want to press charges?? Apparently, and not surprisingly, Marci broke a number of laws when they called her for the reference. Marci told HR that the assistant was a coke addict, never came to work, possibly mentally retarded, etc!!! HR at this company was so stunned they offered up their lawyers to represent the assistant if she wanted it. The funny thing is that the girl got the job since they thought if she can deal with wackados like Marci, she's golden. The assistant was quite young and didn't end up doing anything about Marci, she just wanted to get away from her.

I was once working backstage dressing models during Fashion Week up at Bryant Park. I forget which designer it was, but I surely remember who the head backstage stylist was: none other than Phillip Bloch. This was a few years ago, but the guy was already a "famous stylist-to-the-stars" so the fact that he was even lowering himself to work in the Fashion Week trenches was a surprise. Anyway, each of us dressers was at our assigned rack of clothes and one by one, he walked down the line, inspecting the gowns and deciding how to accessorize them. He arrives at my spot and looks at the clothes and thinks. He then whips out a big piece of pink chiffon, drapes it around himself, and procedes to do his best prancing model-walk while wearing the fabric. He takes it off, changes it around, and does the same. It was all a bit ridiculous, and at the same time, one of the backstage guys walks by and looks at Bloch in amusement, looks at me, and LAUGHS. Then I let out a small chuckle as a result. Bloch stops what he's doing and stares me down. "What are you laughing at? Do you think this is funny?" I just look at him. "This is a fucking fashion show we play with fucking fabric!" I try to tell him that I wasn't laughing at him, but to no avail. The tirade goes on for about 5 minutes. "This is fucking fashion, this isn't a joke! This isn't fucking funny!". I stand there not even believing this is going on, all the while, the dude is STILL WEARING THE GODDAMN CHIFFON! In the end, I found it highly amusing that a bigtime "stylist to the stars" who makes buckets of money could have such a complex and that a little pisher like myself could set him off so. It's one of my shining moments!

While I read the latest Village Voice item with a mixture of nostalgia and nausea (I remember [former editor] Doug [Simmon]'s cab and heroin stories too, yo), I thought since it is the season, I'd pass on some holiday memories from back in the day when the Cooper Square coven was merely a viper pit of ambitious back-stabbers and prima donnas rather than the hemorrhaging cesspool it later evolved into.

When I worked at the Voice in the late 90's, when the ship was slowly making its way across the Atlantic (so way before the New Times Titanic iceberg imploded it), we had holiday parties that went a little something like this: [another former editor] Don Forst would come 'round to talk to the troops at about 5 on Monday (paper would be put to bed early instead of at 10 p.m.) to close up shop and start the festivities. He would announce his intention to walk out and not look back and bail us out if need be. Once the bossmen left, the fun really began.

Twister set up in one hallway, while the smoking lounge turned into the toking lounge (fatties rolled to perfection greeted all visitors) and dancing commenced in another room, where you were likely to see some lechy older men trying to make it with hottie interns. (To their credit, the interns deftly rebuffed such clumsy attempts.) Booze flowed while coldcuts and other holiday party favors kept us occupied as we wandered drunkenly all over the newsroom — the third floor of the Cooper Square building — dropping into one of many couches that seemed to be required furniture for all Voice editors. Everyone had sloppy smiles and nothing but good tidings to pass to co-workers, who gossiped in-between all the good will.

That's a Voice worth missing, yo.

A few summers back, mere months before the ship really began to sink, I was an intern at the Village Voice. Though my boss rarely let his interns out of the cave he called his office, there was one day I really got to take in the wonder that was the voice staff. My boss at the time worked from home, calling in once or twice a day to bark out orders over speaker phone to the five of us in what most closely resembled some sad, slave-driven form of Charlie's Angels, and asked me to put in a request for a new phone line to his office. I did it, and a few hours later I got called into the office of former-editor-now-homeless-vagrant Doug Simmons.

Dude's fucking crazy. I'd only met him in passing before, but he sat me down like I'd been working with him for years and proceeded to give a 45 minute lecture about the seriousness of putting in a new phone line. I knew everyone on the staff hated this guy, but until then I didn't know why. To give you an idea of what this guy's demeanor is like, he presents all the charm of a swarmy businessman who spent two years locked in room with nothing but LSD to eat. So during his little tirade about how disrepectful it is for me to request a new phone line (because it was my evil bidding after all) he spins off on a rant about how he used to work as a cab driver in california in the 70s and how that and being in a punk band taught him about the fall of democracy in this country. Yea..

Once he was satisfied in exlplaining why this phone line wouldn't be possible he let me go and, shell-shocked, I went to get a cup of tea. I walked by journalist-of-the-year Nick Sylvester, an intern at the time I think, who was fawning over two other music interns and rarely ever seemed to be doing any work (imagine!). I was filling up my cup of hot water and saw Michael Musto at his desk and no joke, sobbing to himself in front of his computer. It was at that point I thought to myself how lucky I was to be a part of a news organization with such a bright future.

I spent some time as a temp working for publicity at 20th Century Fox. There are many a story about the X-Men, blind items about hacky directors and their young model girlfriends' carelessness with million dollar necklaces, and who is a bitchy Nobu-demanding diva (and her little dog too), but that stuff is so standard at this point in time.

I did get to work at the VIP screening of the Devil Wears Prada, attended by Anna Wintour, Meryl Streep, Martha Stewart and Candace Bergen. The event was organized by notorious NYC publicity doyenne Peggy Siegal, and of course there was massive drama, and of course it all centered around the seating. We spent the hour before the screening in the theater, changing every single reserved sign on every single seat, while Ms. Siegal flapped around screeching about who could sit where and next to whom. By far the biggest issue was where to seat Anna, and of course, keeping her as far away from Lauren Weisberger as possible. Anna ended up with Bee on the left (on the aisle for a quick entrance and exit), with Candace behind her, Meryl behind Candace and Martha on the opposite side. Lauren ended up waaayyy far in the back right corner. I don't think she showed, which was probably for the best. I felt so bad for Anna because when she sat down, the entire theater all just turned around and stared at her until the lights went down. This was a VIP screening, you would think people would have some modicum of tact. The dinner afterwards was another seating debacle, and the hotel staff made us scrap the seating arrangement Peggy had spent a week on because we couldn't get the placecards around in time. Of course this sent her into a livid rage and she went around screaming at her interns, the Fox interns, the hotel event planners, etc. Patrick McMullan was also in a tizzy because after the screening he had Meryl and Anna posing for the million dollar shot together when Peggy whisked Anna off. The one that got away...

Earlier: Bill O'Reilly's Got the Gas Face

The latest entries, including Bill O'Reilly's stank-ass, after the jump.

When i was an asst. I used to sit at a desk directly opposite my boss's office. Since I did almost all the work for this editor, she would often not know the answers to simple questions people called her about, like "when did that manuscript come in." Instead of putting those people on hold, she would pretend to look for this manuscript and rustle papers around her desk, while snapping her fingers at me to come to her office. Usually I came, because, hell I was a stupid assistant who didn't know better. But one time, I decided "no, i am not your bitch, bitch! I will not respond to finger-snapping like a dog." Since her increasingly frantic snapping wasn't getting my attention, she did the next best thing—THROW A PAPERWEIGHT AT ME! It wasn't one of those heavy paperweights, but still. And the reason she called me into her office? To ask me to give her CORPORATE CARD to her au pair who was waiting downstairs with my boss's kids.

I interned at Fox News this spring, and Bill O'Reilly's office was down the hall from where I worked. He used the same bathroom I did, and one day, as I was washing my hands, he walked by and I hard this sound, vaguely like a fart, and then the stench hit my face. Bill O'Reilly farted on me! He is also not too pleasant of a person, always keeps his head down, which makes him look so much smaller than he is.

Earlier: Tina Brown Sucks, Nina Garcia Baby Daddy Drama!

Anyway, after the jump: find out what Tina Brown likes to put in her mouth, and who Project Runway judge/ Elle editor Nina Garcia likes to put in her down-there mouth.

UPDATE: Ms. Garcia's lawyers have written to inform us that the information contained in this article is false.

I used to work (as an underling) for Tina Brown. She was always really nice to me, but definitely lived in her own bubble world and for a recent J-school grad was a tiny bit intimidating to be around. One day when I had been working at the mag for less than maybe a month she came out of her office to have a meeting with some editors/assistants including me. After about 5 minutes her asst. came out to tell her that she had an important call, which she then proceeded to take at MY desk. So the meeting keeps going and I sort of glance back and see her completely chilling at my desk - chatting on my phone, leaning back in my chair, and then casually reaching over and proceeding to start unwrapping and eating a package of Vitamin C drops that had been sitting on my desk! As if they were her very own! I think she ate like two or three in the course of the phone conversation. From then on I could never be afraid of that candy-stealing bitch again. At least she threw away the wrappers.

It's common knowledge that Nina Garcia (married) is having an affair with Prosper Assouline (of Assouline publishing and also married w/ a son). In fact you guys have run a few Nina sightings with "overly gelled" man (that's Prosper). It's a little known fact that Prosper keeps a love nest in his actual office. A small door in his office at the Sterret-Lehigh building leads to a fully furnished studio apartment w/ full bathroom. On more than one occasion Prosper's assistant has had to juggle his wife and Nina moving in and out of that love shack. Both Nina's and Prosper's former assistants (no, I'm not one of them) have blackmailed their way into better positions just for keeping quiet (One is now and Editor at Elle). The backroom loveshack has also been used by various other Assouline employees. Anyway, the whole point of that convoluted story is that Nina Garcia is sperminated... and no one knows who the father is: her husband or Prosper Assouline.

We will keep you as anonymous as possible unless directed otherwise. This includes stripping your name and header information (time of email etc.) out of any emails we reproduce. However, that's just what happens on our end of things.

Do not send tips from your work email. You'd be surprised how many people, lord love 'em, still send tips right from their work email account. Now granted, the vast majority of tipsters will never be subjected to the kind of internal scrutiny that would make this a problem. However, if you do send us something, and we do run it, then even our stringent attempts at preserving your anonymity may fail if your bosses just look for anything sent to tips@gawker.com.

Forward work emails off-site before sending to Gawker. Send those emails from work to a third-party free/anonymous email account, such as Gmail, Yahoo, Hotmail, etc. We recommend Gmail for nefarious chicanery like this, as it typically doesn't include information in your emails that can be traced back to your employer IP address or other such technical mysteries. This works particularly well if you want to remain anonymous even to us.

Forward multiple work emails to your off-site account as a diversion. Even if your employers can't precisely prove that you sent something to Gawker, if you forwarded only the one troublesome work email to your off-site account, it's gonna look a lil' suspicious. Therefore, forward a raft of innocuous other emails, before and after the naughty email(s). That way, you can innocently pretend that you just forward emails to your free account as a matter of course, as reminders or for later review.

Forward emails to Gawker while using a non-work computer. Even if you follow all of the above precautions, a truly paranoid employer might have employees under surveillance by means of extensive web logging or even keystroke logging. Thus, even though you processed a naughty email through Gmail, they can check your actual computer to figure out what evils you've perpetrated. So once the naughty email is in your Gmail account, perform the actual forward to Gawker while on a home computer or other non-work machine. This level of self-terror is hardly ever necessary, but keep it in mind should your office have a mole hunt already underway.

Instant messaging ain't what it used to be. Until relatively recently, IMming was sorta below the radar of corporate paranoia, meaning that you could get away with passing classified info that way. Among the secretive, that security hole has pretty much been plugged. IM monitors or keystroke loggers can reproduce anything sent this way from your workplace, so in general, don't use 'em.

If investigated, do not cooperate. Deny, deny, deny! And keep sending out tips. In almost every case, the hunting and/or firing of a mole is the product of a particular VIP's rage, and the more outside attention they get, the more ridiculous they look. Once cooler heads prevail and realize there really is such a thing as bad publicity, the hunt will die down. At least overtly — but you can guarantee that once a mole is detected, predatory behavior will commence on the part of internal tech/security goons. Be cautious, but be strong. Tawdry picayune personal gossip wants to be free!

Earlier: Announcing the Media Mole Rodeo

We're looking for lurid first-hand accounts involving the New York media world. Blind items are fine, but obviously there had better be some juicy detail. Naming names is always preferred of course. And forget about generic hilarity that could occur in any office; the media hook is a required element, though it need only be the presence or involvement of someone who works in media. What editor has a legendary coke habit? Which authors sleep with their agent? Who got fired for sending anonymous tips to blogs? These need to be situations you experienced personally, not friend-of-a-friend or general office gossip-lore. Submissions will be completely anonymous, and we recommend you submit them anonymously. Stay safe, and send your New York media anecdotes to mole@gawker.com. We'll run the best here, and eventually we'll pick a pair of winners for the free drinks — one chosen by readers, another picked by Gawker editors. And just to get you started, here's a small and innocuous example that came over the transom, featuring NBC exec and alleged dick Jeff Zucker:

I am not even a full time employee at NBC, but I had a Zucker story after 2 weeks on the job. Most of the elevators at 30 Rock have a weird system whereby you press your destination floor before you enter the elevator, and then it comes and gets you, and takes you to the floor. I was using the studio elevators, and was going to the 4th floor, I was about to press the button when Zucker, who I did not immediately recognize, said to me from in the elevator "if you are going anywhere below floor 8, get another elevator, I'm in a hurry." Apparently Zucker didn't have time to waste 15 seconds on a another floor. I pressed the 4th floor button anyway, and walked away to another elevator. I was thankful my ID was in my pocket.