My 25-year quest to sneak Dylan references into absolutely everything

By Duff McDonald

I have written about many things over the past quarter century, but the one true through line has been the Bob Project. It is my submission in the contest of life, and with it I will win what’s never been won.

Back in the early 1990s, a job at Time Inc. was a coveted prize for writers. But after a year or so at Money magazine, I was already bored. The only way down the forward path, I concluded, was to start sneaking Dylan references into the magazine. When a few other writers caught wind of my little project, we decided that a contest was in order. The Bob Project was underway. READ ON

A final missive from Lansy Everett, formerly of the New York Herald Tribune, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Vogue, Worth, and Harper’s Bazaar

Dear Graydon:

Since I’m filing this just before Christmas, let me tie up this bundle of Upstate Journals in a neat little bow. (And it’s the ONLY present you’ll be getting from me! They used to LOVE me at Murray’s Cheese for all the gift boxes I sent out on Si’s dime, but now I’m persona non gratin.)

My previous journal left off with Louise Deeds—for it was indeed she, very much alive—aquiver in my arms, shocked to find a stranger addressing her by name in the Palm Beach house where she had been held prisoner for 25 years. “My READ ON

Happy New Year! Your long-awaited guide to romance north of the border is here

Written and Illustrated by Godfrey Daniel

Anybody who’s ever slipped away for a romantic winter weekend in the frozen north—and who hasn’t fantasized about a special anniversary getaway in Moose Jaw?—is well aware of the ins and outs of sex in Canada. “Pulling the Goalie,” “the Bernie Faloney,” and “the Queensway” are as familiar to Canadians as the missionary position is to their American partners in shame. But to fully understand the Canadian way of love and romance is to give in to your inner cold person. Herewith, some of the men behind the classics of The Canadian Kama Sutra. (Available in paperback at all Tim Hortons outlets and throughout the entire Canadian Tire chain!) READ ON

Revisiting a Spy piece that proved, once and for all, scientifically, what no child wanted to hear

By Bruce Handy

Do you believe in Santa?

This is a complex theological question that each child must decide for him- or herself. Until now, that is. With the aid of computers, SPY JR. has conducted a rigorous statistical investigation into the question of Santa’s existence. Be forewarned: you may not like our conclusions…

We begin our investigation by assuming Santa Claus really does exist. Now, if you’ve learned anything about human nature, you know it’s highly unlikely that a normal man would choose, for no particular reason, to devote his life to making toys and delivering them to boys and girls the world over. But this is an READ ON

A little more correspondence from Lansy Everett, formerly of the New York Herald Tribune, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Vogue, and Harper’s Bazaar

Dear Graydon:

Forgive me for peddling this column under a misnomer—Upstate Journal has temporarily morphed into Postcard from Palm Beach! But GOODNESS, I never anticipated, when I pitched you on a journal of my “new start,” that it would pull me down into one of my old haunts. Dare I say that this development has imbued my writing with more PEP! Or maybe it’s just the packet of chocolate-covered coconut patties that I just gnawed through.

In my last journal, I told you how, after Simon Doonan mistook me for a tourist illegally Airbnb-ing in his building, he set upon me violently with a duster. Well, after we jovially cleared up READ ON

The U.S.S. Lincoln projects American sea power on a small speck off the coast of Newfoundland

The transcript of a radio conversation between USS Lincoln and the Canadian authorities off the coast of Newfoundland has been widely published, with slight variations:

Authorities: Please divert your course 15 degrees to the south to avoid a collision.

Lincoln: Recommend you divert YOUR course 15 degrees to the north to avoid a collision.

Authorities: Negative. You will have to divert YOUR course 15 degrees to the south to avert collision.

Lincoln: This is the Captain of the US Navy ship. I say again, divert YOUR course.

Authorities: No. I say again, divert YOUR course.

Lincoln: THIS IS THE AIRCRAFT READ ON

Still more correspondence from Lansy Everett, formerly of the New York Herald Tribune, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Vogue, Worth, and Harper’s Bazaar

Dear Graydon:

Oh, DISASTER! All the momentum I had gained in cracking the cold case of who murdered Walt Deeds—and what became of his wife, Louise—has been utterly SAPPED. Why? Patrick Lyonnais, my co-detective, is in a terrible SNIT! He heard that Paul Wilmot and Bob Colacello have been tapped to consult on Ryan Murphy’s Halston mini-series for Netflix. I don’t even know if that’s true, but Patrick’s indignation came through loud and clear over the phone: “Paul and Bob, Lansy? Paul and Bob? They barely even knew Halston! They never saw the boudoir of 101 East 63rd! They never lovingly cut his coke with Ovaltine!” READ ON

The “stable genius” becomes a laughingstock

Monday

My plane is very big and very special and it has just arrived for the Nato summit in England where I am very popular. And the Boris guy who wants to be me, so badly by the way, is calling already.

“I get it,” I’m saying, “because I am a very stable genius. I’m the smartest person in the room. Even when I’m by myself. Everybody says! Who? I don’t know. Empty room. What were we talking about?”

Boris says we were talking about me staying out of the UK election.

“Sure,” I say. “Even Melania gets it. She’s READ ON

An exclusive excerpt from Melania Trump’s (completely unverified) private journal

Think to myself, I make big mistake. I tell my little boy No. 2, “I never been good with numbers at school but your ‘Little Mike,’ isn’t he very big man?” Donald say Little Mike is four foot nine inches tall and shorter than the flowerpots at Mar-a-Lago.

I been reading, I know facts. I know M.L.B. No. 2 think he is greatest president in all of history but he is not even tallest and not even fattest. He not as tall as Lincoln or L.B.J. (he so poor he not have last name—just letters). Donald say they both wore risers. I tell him someone called Taft much fatter—340 pounds. M.L.B. No. 2 not even close. Well, close. READ ON

More correspondence from Lansy Everett, formerly of the New York Herald Tribune, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Mademoiselle, Vogue, Worth, and Harper’s Bazaar

Dear Graydon:

Sorry that this entry of Upstate Journal is late. Tiny crisis: was TROTTING past the V.F.W. hall in Slattern, phone to ear, trying in vain to convince Gully Wells to give me her family’s mutton-suet-pudding recipe, when I SLIPPED on a patch of ice, sending me arse-over-teakettle onto the sidewalk! Fortunately, two hardy legionnaires were quick to help me back to my feet, and my Ann Demeulemeester leather jeans kept me from skinning my knees—no small thing at my age, when every dermatological episode is potentially a prelude to skin grafts and a cefoxitin drip.

But my iPhone was less lucky. It landed with a PLOONK in a slush puddle! I remembered that you’re supposed to plunge a wet iPhone into a bowl of READ ON

Rickety old airplanes, disease-carrying flies, manic wildlife—how will a city slicker survive in Africa’s toniest camps?

By Jill Kargman

“NAAAAAAANSTINGONYAMA BAGITHI BABA!” I belted the opening lyrics of The Lion King into my dad’s face when he announced he was taking us on safari. At 78, he was hardly a crypt-keeper—no walker with tennis balls, no real aversion to drafts, nary a cataract in sight. In fact, he recently got his first tattoo. But he wanted to see “the big five” (rhino, lion, buffalo, leopard, and elephant) with his grandchildren before he hit octogenarian territory, so off to Africa we went.

Two small things: I’m not into sun or animals. My complexion is what some people might READ ON

More correspondence from Lansy Everett, formerly of the New York Herald Tribune, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Mademoiselle, Vogue, Worth, and Harper’s Bazaar

By Lansy Everett

Dear Graydon:

So it was a typical Saturday night in my new upstate life: me, three sheets to the wind on Kirkland Rioja from Costco, arguing politics with Sheila Weller and Ronee Blakley on Facebook. I think Ronee and I may be THROUGH. She’s SO in the tank for Bernie, who is, to my mind, unelectable. My TYPE, but unelectable.

Anyway, I got bored with our bilious Facebook back and forth and clicked on the Messages balloon thingy at the top of the page, and I noticed for the first time that there is a tab for “message requests”—communications from people you’re not “friends” with. There were two unread messages waiting there. One was from Penelope Green from the READ ON

Recent correspondence from Lansy Everett, formerly of the New York Herald Tribune, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Mademoiselle, Vogue, Worth, and Harper’s Bazaar

By Lansy Everett

Dear Graydon:

I had the damnedest time trying to begin this column until I decided to just start it as if I were writing a letter to you, like Tom Wolfe did when he slapped “Dear Byron” on the top of his Kandy-Kolored dragster piece. Byron Dobell! Lord, if THAT’S not me showing my age … Would you believe that we girls still wore gloves to the office in those days? We all had daddy crushes on Byron back then … so avuncular-sexy in that Garrick Utley kind of way. (Christ, showing my age AGAIN!) Honestly, I don’t regret breaking up By’s second marriage. READ ON

Can you tell your pharmaceuticals from your pop stars? Really? A quiz

By Ted Heller

Do you take Xeljanz and then listen to slow jams? Is Farxiga your favorite D.J.? Then this is the quiz for you … maybe. In each pair, one word is the name of an actual prescription drug; the other name belongs to a musician. Can you tell which is which? For each pair, click on the circle you believe to be next to the musician—you’ll soon find out whether you’re correct. WARNING: Do not take this quiz if you are allergic to Qwyzz™ (or if you don’t like his music).

Ted Heller is an Editor at Large for AIR MAIL

An exclusive excerpt from Melania Trump’s (completely unverified) private diary

I tell my little boy No. 2 that I am happy we are moving to Florida and I say to him, “You need to build wall.” He say he already build wall. I ask him, “Where is wall, where are crocodiles and alligators?” He does not understand. I tell him, “Donald, we move to Mar-a-Lago. That good thing—cabanas, sunshine, good bronzing, and big supply of Melania Beauty Caviar Complexe C6 I keep in wine fridge. No longer Prison 1600. But we need wall.” He insist no need for wall because otherwise how he hire gardeners, waiters, chambermaids for all hotels no longer called Trump. READ ON

The world would be a better place imparted with your vital insights and uncanny corporate acumen. Wouldn’t it?

By Bruce Feirstein

Dear Leader:

Well, we’ve reached that time of the year again. The first chill of autumn is in the air; it’s time to procure the pumpkins, break out the tweeds and the cable-knits, ferry the yacht to the Caribbean, and start thinking about skyboxes for the Super Bowl and hotel reservations for Davos.

Such is the life of a Sky King.

It’s also that time of the year when the publishing industry unveils its annual tranche of Master of the Universe Business Autobiographies. Among the many initial public offerings this fall are memoirs from Disney’s Bob Iger, Salesforce’s Marc Benioff, and Stephen Schwarzman, founder of the Blackstone Group. READ ON

October 19, 2019

His Excellency
Recep Tayyip Erdogon
President of the Republic of Turkey
Ankara

Dear Mr. President!

You’re welcome! And by the way, thank you for your incredible invitation for a return visit to the presidential palace in the Ataturk Forrest! Can I say how much I love what youv have done to the place! Last time we dropped by, I remember being especially wowed by the wall coverings in gold and goat foreskin. We all felt that the combo created a beautiful warm luster as the sun went down. As a second-term gift to myself, I’m contemplating a similar design element for the private quarters in the White House. READ ON

Condensed, with perhaps one or two liberties taken. Still, the reading time is 118 minutes less than the film’s running time

By Craig Brown

INT. THE DRAWING ROOM, DOWNTON ABBEY

The earl peers through the window graciously.

EARL OF GRANTHAM: Those little drops of water falling from the sky onto the drive: what on earth are they, Carson?

MR. CARSON: I regret to tell you, milud, but it’s … rain.

LADY MARY: And those little pools of water, Carson?

MR. CARSON: Puddles, milady.

LADY GRANTHAM: Why, Carson, that’s the most terrible news. The King and Queen will be arriving in barely three days. If Their Majesties were to get wet, it would be a tragedy.

LADY MARY: Talking of tragedies, Mama. There’s a slight stain on the blue READ ON

(It’s why the Golden Age of television stayed Golden!)

By Godfrey Daniel

Schmecky Schmecky

Two names, one inspired act. That Schmecky, he could imitate anyone. His two-way skit about the Duke of Windsor’s date with Il Duce had them on the floor at Grossinger’s. Sullivan hears about it and Schmecky gets the call. Bathes, gets suit pressed, and turns up for his appearance on time. Wouldn’t you know it, those four mopheads from Liverpool arrive and the crowd goes bananas. Schmecky gets trampled in the mêlée. Last words at Cedars: “Bury me with the borscht—Jennie’s borscht!”

Benny Schmidtz

Benny comes over after the war. Applies for a G.I. loan but gets the READ ON

By Ted Heller

If you somehow weren’t offended by acting Citizenship and Immigration Services director Ken Cuccinelli’s reworking of Emma Lazarus’s “The New Colossus,” maybe you need to take a look at My Anthology of English Poetry, which Cuccinelli’s boss has been composing in his spare time (while he’s not breaking up families and putting children in detention centers):

George Gordon Byron (1788–1824)
“She Walks in Beauty”
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And if she wasn’t my daughter
I’d date her.

William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)
“The Second Coming”
That twenty centuries of stony sleep READ ON

The news that The Office will be leaving Netflix at the end of next year is a devastating blow to the series’s legions of fans. But fear not, an even more cringe-worthy iteration is playing out every night on cable news: The (Oval) Office! All of your favorite characters are back—Michael, Jim, Pam, Dwight, Angela, Meredith, Ryan, Creed, Kevin, and David! But with all-new plotlines—and a new (but familiar) cast of misfits and miscreants. It’s must-see TV taken to a whole new level!

Rejection letters you might have missed

This item was originally published on airmail.news. Read on Air Mail →

Rejection letters you may have missed

This item was originally published on airmail.news. Read on Air Mail →

The veep’s hotel demands (we think)

By Ted Heller

This item was originally published on airmail.news. Read on Air Mail →