Vol. 1, Issue 27, November 18, 2003
T. Herman Zweibel Won't Return My Calls
I have met many Curious individuals in my time here at the Helm of the Review. Gentlefolk from all walks of Life send us Missives of greater or lesser Interest and Grammatical Quality. However, though there are few News-Paper men such as Myself, I am not in fact quite Alone. Other vintage Luminaries of the Publishing World persist, like graying Megaliths on a grassy British Knoll: Ochs, Luce, Jameson, Mullet... Rarely do we Gather, each keeping to his own Corner of the Print World like Barons of old; but sooner or Later we do all cross Paths. Our fiefs are Legend, our staunch journalistic Principles like mossy Bedrock at the Foundations of our respective Publications.
But there is one who I have Not shared a Drink with, nor sparred with pithy Weather-related Wisdom, nor Harrumphed over a young Hack making a Mockery of his paper. That man is T. Herman Zweibel, the most notorious Recluse in the business. This veritable Titan of the business is notorious for his lack of Hospitality, and shows his face nearly Never. His staff live in Fear of his Wrath; his mighty Pen casts a hugely dark Shadow over the worlds of Print and the Webamagraph, for the tendrils of his influence reach to Both lands. And the man is reputed to have a bottle of 1923 Auld Ferrins, for which men have Died, by Jove.
I made my Mind this weekend past to Breach the walls of his Solitude and share a Drink. Thus, to the Telegraph office; a Wire please, quick as you Can! But the wire was Refused. To the Telephone; dial now, Careful to speak so the Operator can hear - "Klondike One Two Eight Please!" I bellow. But the call is Refused. Telephonic age, you have met your Match.
Ephram proposes an Electro-Mail, but a small Rap on the Head with my Walking-Stick disabuses him of the Notion. It is time for real Action, not Button-Pushing. I stride through the Door and take a Cab to Zweibel's residence. I present my Card to the grim Footman at the door; it is placed upon a silver Platter, and I am asked to Wait in the Hall. I admire the Cézannes on the wall. Clearly Zweibel is a man of some Taste! I can also smell some rather Fine Pipe-Tobacco. Moreover, I find sixty-three Cents in Change under the cushions of the Couch and a Cat concealed in the Planter.
Before long, I am told that the eminent Editor is Indisposed Indefinitely, and I am Disposed of out the front Door. Outrageous!
Can any Publication exist in such true Isolation indefinitely? Are we not Members of the same Community? My publication may be more Modest than his, but we surely Share the same Duties and Responsibilities to the general Reading Public. Our reporting is every Bit as Reliable as yours, Mr. Zweibel!
My next Plan involves disguising Ephram as a Groomsman and infiltrating the Stables. I shall keep you Apprised of our Efforts, and in the Meanwhile I can but shake my Head at this unbecoming Behavior from our reclusive Peer. Stand fast, sir! We are Coming for you, one Way or Another!