This is Dimon's 1974 yearbook senior page from the Browning School, the upper-east-side private academy he attended. We first learned about the yearbook in Duff McDonald's biography Last Man Standing, and knew that we needed to see the whole thing for ourselves. We put out some calls to find the rest of it and got a friendly source to scan in Dimon's whole page from the Grytte.

Sadly, Dimon didn't share Neel Kashkari's high-school obsession with sports cars. But he did clearly fit in with the waning hippie look of the mid-1970s.

Dimon's still got a reputation as something of a poor dresser. Here's how Last Man Standing biography describes his sartorial acumen:

He also eschewed the traditional uniform of the B-school student-khakis and button-down shirts-and wore jeans and often a blue leather jacket. His classmates actually remember that of the 75 students in their year, Dimon was the absolute worst dresser.

[snip]

His casual weekend wear was black jeans and a black t-shirt. "Jamie was dressed like Johnny Cash," laughs one executive. "I guess he thought he looked cool. But he didn't."

And here's what Andrew Ross Sorkin's new bailout book has to say about his jeans preferences:

A fed staffer announced to all the CEOs that Paulson, Geithner, and Cox would soon be coming downstairs. When Jamie Dimon, dressed in tight blue jeans, black loafers, and a shirt showing off his muscles, wandered into the room, Colm Kellcher whispered to John Mack, "He's in pretty good shape for his age."

You'd think someone who made $30 million in 2007 would be able to afford to pay someone to dress him better. Here are some close-ups of the good pictures.

The educational mission at Browning's is to turn out "Browning gentlemen," and Dimon sure looks like a gentleman, doesn't he? Right down to the ruffled jeans-and-tie bit and the long-haired Himalayan searcher pose.

Dimon chose to adorn this photo the Hamlet motto, "This above all: To thine own self be true," rounding out the nonconformist-outsider theme of the page. We wonder if he once shared former Bear Stearns chief Jimmy Cayne's penchant for pot—which would be funny, seeing as how Dimon earned his reputation as Wall Street's last man standing after he bought Bear Stearns at a measly $2-per-share, averting a financial catastrophe.

He's thankfully trimmed his hair down to a more manageable—and less androgynous—length.

That last bit, according to a former Felix Dennis employee tipster! Since we told you about some of Dennis' various maniacal foibles yesterday, like being a neat freak and owning many dildos, allegedly, more tips have poured in! We love Felix Dennis a bit more every day. The following are just rumors:

• This one comes "second hand" so let's take it with several grains of salt, but don't you think this is awesome?: In the mid-90s, in England, Dennis throws a huge masquerade ball-type party. He arrives dressed as a king, with several women in tow. Halfway through the party, he has the then-president and VP get up and make a speech to the company about what a great job they'd done. "Then Felix took the mike and promptly fired the president and VP in front of everyone, [and] kicked them out of the party." Ha.
• He forced employees to go to his poetry book readings.
• He smoked cigarettes constantly, in a non-smoking office.
• He bought a forest and named it after himself (true!).
• He rewarded his employees of the month with free trips to his estate in Mustique, featuring servant service and all.
• Maxim's office had a full bar, and a bong.

A former staffer at one of Dennis' magazines sent us the following random rumor/ stories about working for the man, the myth, the food safety fanatic:

• Warned that Felix Dennis was coming to visit their office, the staffers did a half-ass job of cleaning the place up. Felix, a neat freak, came, saw, freaked out, and threatened to fire everybody if the office wasn't clean the next morning. He didn't end up firing them, though!
• There was a rumor in the office (a pretty strange rumor, if you think about it) that Felix Dennis was deathly scared of contracting an STD. Seems reasonable! One employee there went to Dennis' house, snooped around, and reported that he owned many, many dildos. Not a crime! Except the snooping part.
• Felix Dennis insisted that one of his close friends be placed on the masthead of a magazine as "Snowboard Editor." Despite the fact that she never wrote anything, snowboard-related or otherwise.

The Beatrice itself was born many, many years ago. It was once a speakeasy, back in those ratty days of prohibition. But its current incarnation—the cokey, smokey, fuck den—sprang to life in 2006, when Paul Sevigny, the brother of actress Chloë, masterminded, along with his partners, a bar/restaurant that would return some classic bar elements to New York. Italian-food specials and jacket-and-tie nights. Old New York, Carrie Bradshaw might neighingly call it.

But, you know, instead it mostly catered to those who could slink past a velvet rope, those who, giddy with abandon because New York was rich and everyone was young all the way back in 2006, wanted to sit in its dark, low-ceiling'd recesses and chain smoke, sneaking away every so often for a quickie or a bump in the bathroom. And there was dancing. Oh was there dancing. So you could say, in some sideways measure, an aura of Old New York did surround the Bea. It was a bit dangerous, a bit wild, and it was definitely mean, in that fashionable kind of way.

And then the celebrities came. Oh boy did they come. Sometimes literally!—actor Shia LaBeouf was heard once loudly begging for sex at the club, as if it was some loud, boorish frat party for the coolest frat kids in the world.

These celebrities set the standards for smoking and held court like it was no big deal. "Here we all are, under this ceiling, just relaxing," they seemed to say. While Hud Morgan, a notorious Bea dancer, thundered a drunken tarantella across the room. Well, he was dancing, but he was also fighting.

The former Men's Voguer 'famously' exchanged fisticuffs with his media colleague Spencer Morgan at the club last year, all over a girl. And so the glitz and glamor of the club, coupled with the constant crowing by some New York-centric blogosphere blogs, began bringing negative attention. Not really just from the crackdown authorities, who meekly tried to curb the drugs and smoking, but from losers and poseurs and people who cast the seething milieu in too-bright, unfavorable light. When all-too-willing media punching bag Julia Allison is seen weeping at your club, its must-go-to days may be numbered.

The whole thing started to wind down about a year ago. People still flocked, people still danced, people threw caution to the wind and did rails in the loo. But some luster was lost. The whole thing just became too top heavy, as any hotspot is wont to do. Remember Butter? Exactly.

A club whose thesis was all about that hard-but-warm New York edge became just another stared-at phenomenon. Sure it was (and still is) sorta tough to get into, but the harder it became, the more it started to look like trying. And as we all know, trying is definitely not cool.

So then we come to that temporary end. On one hand, maybe it'll be the shot the club needs. You know, if a "Free Beatrice" party ends up coalescing in some other dark corner this week, if the place suddenly seems gutter-glittery again.

Or, more likely, it'll just continue its soft decline. You know, there's a recession on and all and New York is changing. Some small few of us might still need those dull thumps and furtive bumps, but for most the whole thing will probably soon just seem silly and indulgent and wrong, joining the embarrassing annals of the city's pop history, like leg warmers or beanies, like Ms. Allison or the short reign of Peaches Geldof. And most bitterly, like all of our money. Our long lost money.

As a former Gawker editor just said to us over IM: "the ceilings were so low it gave me a sad."

Indeed.

We're trying to keep this series alive. So if you have or spot any old photos of media type friends, send them over. Hopefully we'll be able to compile something of a yearbook at some point.

There are two pictures, just posted on Facebook. One is a portrait of the gloriously becoiffed future media queen (sans boa, in these days), the other a cross section of college dorm life. Two shirtless, lean young men, louche on a bed. Two permed, and fully clothed women sit upright. The girl on the inside is Touby, we believe. These were taken at Smith college in Northampton, MA sometime around 1981.

This is something of a Part Two to our The Way We Were series. We'd like to keep it going! Have any old media heyday photos lying around? Send them over! We'd like to compile something of yearbook, to remember how the world used to be before the internet, like a mad and glowing Pied Piper, led us all to ruin.

The caption on this is both priceless and sad: "After slumber party in Laurel and I's room. Don't ask me what happened that night. I spent the night in a friend's room. Anne Laufe was going to nearby Mt. Holyoke at the time. I can't remember the guy's names, Laurel?"

For a while people were just uploading new snaps onto the social networking site, but now some graying folks (including oldie and goodie Spy magazine!)—perhaps suddenly feeling burdened with the desperate, tingly sensation of time swiftly passing—are sifting through shoeboxes at the backs of closets and flipping through dogeared copies of The Bean Trees to see what old glory days photos they can find and slap up on the web. We've found a few so far—of Radar brave knight Maer Roshan, of peacenik Bill Dobbs, of Wigstock mainstay Lady Bunny (above), all of them fresh-faced and young—on Jon Nalley's 1992 Democratic National Convention album. Journey with us below, and then send us your old(ish) New York (and beyond!) photos. It'll be like signing a yearbook!

Dobbs, right, with Sandor Katz


Maer, on left.


Maer, on right.

On Larry's page, dug up through the Internet Archive, he declared "I attribute a great deal of my understanding and ability with mechanical devices to Legos and similar construction toys." Brin's page has a laughable GIF animation, but the real humor is that he apparently worked on an early copyright-infringement detection system called COPS with Stanford professor Hector Garcia-Molina. Brin even posted his resume from 1994, and a quick peek into the source code reveals a telling tidbit — hidden in a HTML comment, Brin states as his employment objective: "A large office, good pay, and very little work. Frequent expense-account trips to exotic lands would be a plus." Looks like his dream came true.