I have a story about Harvey Weinstein, the Buffalo News and me. When I started writing about popular music, Harvey Weinstein was a concert promoter who ran an old theater in Buffalo called The Century. People my age loved that theater and we went there to see everyone from Patti Smith to Genesis. When he and his partner sold it - it would be torn down and the word was it would be made into a parking lot - I was an editor at the local college newspaper. I wrote a scathing editorial saying that Harvey didn't care about pop music artistry, just money. Harvey called me into his office for a meeting and yelled at me. It was violent. I was used to violent words, but this was over the top. I felt that at any moment, this could turn from mental abuse to physical abuse. My heart was beating hard - from fear.
I was also contributing to the Buffalo News at the time, a freelance feature writer and concert reviewer. Harvey called my editor and lied to him. He said I had been trying to get into concerts for free by stating I was writing a Buffalo News review. He asked for me to be fired. When the editor called me and said I would no longer be working with the paper, I said, "Why would you believe him and not me? I write for you. I've been writing for you for $35 a review for some time. You've never had an issue with me."
He said, "Harvey's word carries a lot of weight in this town." And so, that was it for my work with my hometown paper. Of course, I was devastated. It felt so unfair to someone who was young and idealistic, who just wanted to write.
I tried to turn that into something positive. I kept going because I simply needed to write. It was in my blood, like it's in the blood of so many. Some time later, Adam Moss, then at Esquire magazine, ran a long story I wrote about a band from Buffalo. It even made it to the cover. And not long after that, I left Buffalo for New York City. I like to tell myself I really have never looked back.
But a couple of years ago when I was consulting for the Tribeca Film Festival and we were having lunch at The Tribeca Grill, one of the festival honchos saw Harvey sitting alone at a nearby table. He introduced me to Harvey, who looked at me with a brief flash of recognition but not full recognition. My heart was beating in the same way again. But that was just for a few minutes. And those moments passed. And now, well, I'm still here, typing away. And Harvey is where he deserves to be. It will get even worse for him, I have no doubt.
As a young Buffalo News contributor, I met Nat Hentoff when I was still in college to interview him for a feature story. I was an avid Village Voice admirer and it was Hentoff (and Mark Jacobson) whose compelling and groundbreaking work made me want to leave town to write for the Voice. Hentoff was fearless; he even kept his phone number in the phone book for all to find. I sat on his couch as a college kid and he was completely gracious as we moved willy-nilly from jazz to education (I was nervous and jumped from topic to topic).
His affecting "Our Children Are Dying," about education amid the poverty of Harlem, is one of the reasons I moved the New York Videogame Critic Circle toward community/charitable endeavors. When I began writing for the Voice, Hentoff was still a lauded fixture there. And when I moved from Jersey City to Greenwich Village, part of the reason I settled on 12th Street was because it was down the street from Hentoff's apartment. Simply seeing him walking on the street would dissolve any kind of writer's block I was having. I certainly didn't agree with him on everything he espoused, but he had a great impact on me - and so many. Rest In Peace the great Nat Hentoff.
I don't want to make this devastating moment small by comparing it to popular culture.
But in Game of Thrones, they say, "Winter is coming."
Well, "Winter is here."
Yet there's a deep moment I want to share. It lasted two minutes, early last night, on the street where politicians like the mayor spoke from a stage to the throngs. An older woman sat in the ADA area. She began crying silently, weeping. Then, she took her cane, raised herself up from a folding chair, and began to limp away. Because she was ADA, she had a straight path out past the fenced in crowd. She went from the sidewalk full of bright stadium lights into the looming shadow of the Javits Convention Center where she became barely visible -- but not engulfed by the shadow.
Yes, she was crestfallen. She knew what was happening long before almost anyone else did. But even as she limped, she limped quickly and with a strength. I am not very optimistic right now. I think a majority has embraced fear over hope. But that woman, despite her tears - she is a survivor. As she walked away, my sadness didn't deepen. And watching her, I felt the tiniest tinge of optimism.
She is a survivor. I am a survivor. Even though it may not feel that way right now, we are all survivors. And some of us, who are fighters, however sad, will try to fight. It's all that we can do: survive, and when our heads are clearer, speak out and fight for what we value in our Constitution and in our hearts. Even after yesterday. Even in winter.