by George Wayne
DEDICATION
This particular bit of genius is dedicated to Gem & Frenchy . . . Mum & Dad
Phillip, Janice, and Debra . . . brother and sisters.
CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
FOREWORD BY GRAYDON CARTER
INTRODUCTION: WHERE IT ALL BEGAN
JOAN RIVERS
DEBBIE REYNOLDS
CARRIE FISHER
MARC JACOBS
DAVID COPPERFIELD
PHILIP JOHNSON
BRIDGET HALL
MILTON BERLE
BARRY WHITE
DOLPH LUNDGREN
DENNIS BASSO
IVANKA TRUMP
CARRIE DONOVAN
GERALDO RIVERA
KATE MOSS
ROSS BLECKNER
SANDRA BERNHARD
BOB COLACELLO
IAN SCHRAGER
TONY CURTIS
CHARLTON HESTON
IVANA TRUMP
KATHLEEN TURNER
FARRAH FAWCETT
FRANCESCO SCAVULLO
LEROY NEIMAN
ANNA WINTOUR
CINDY ADAMS
MARTHA STEWART
HELEN GURLEY BROWN
FABIO
SARAH FERGUSON—DUCHESS OF YORK
RUSSELL SIMMONS
EARTHA KITT
PRINCE FEDERICO PIGNATELLI DELLA LEONESSA
JACKIE COLLINS
TAMARA MELLON
RÉGINE
DONATELLA VERSACE
KENNETH JAY LANE
MR. BLACKWELL
GRAYDON CARTER
ROBERT EVANS
JERRY HALL
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CREDITS
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
FOREWORD
George Wayne and I arrived in New York about the same time. I came from Canada in the seventies, to write for Time magazine and valiantly tried to look like I belonged there. George came from Jamaica in the eighties to peer into the Mudd Club and almost immediately began looking like he belonged there. He learned quickly that writing about powerful people had a way of earning him, if not exactly their respect, then at least their attention. To this end he founded a magazine, which he called R.O.M.E. It was a deliriously lo-fi affair that leaned heavily on collage and might well have been called O.P.X.M.—Other People’s Xerox Machines. It might help for you to imagine the Internet on paper, photocopied and stapled together by the proprietor himself. Long before it was fashionable to cultivate a high-low sensibility, George was pioneering his with R.O.M.E. Society fixtures such as Jackie Kennedy and Lynn Wyatt shared pages with drag queens and club kids. Lists predominated. There was a lot of Andy Warhol and Grace Jones. With a circulation verging on three figures, he could afford to play fast and loose with the clearance of rights.
At the offices of Spy, which my fellow editor Kurt Andersen and I founded in the mid-eighties, George was a fixture. (I do recall that we went through a lot of copy paper on those days when George was hanging around the office.) Not a week, and sometimes not a day, went by when he didn’t ask me for a job. For five years I politely rebuffed his advances. Then, on a hot July morning in Paris, a year or so after I had gravitated to Vanity Fair, I bumped into him outside a Karl Lagerfeld show. He was sitting on one of those stone stanchions outside the Louvre. He casually asked me for a job. It had become his form of greeting me and this time he said it more out of rote than with any conviction. And for one reason or another—an admiration for his tenacity, or perhaps the mild Parisian morning air—I said, “Oh what the hell,” and gave him one.
We thought it safer to keep him in the Q&A silo of magazine writing. He accepted the proposition and George’s “column” in Vanity Fair just sort of took off. To be on the office floor with him was to submit to the state of chaos that tends to swirl permanently around writers and photographers of talent—or just those who are magnets for disorder. Someone’s apartment was always on fire (occasionally his). Someone was always drumming up or rehashing or resuming a blood feud (often with him). Someone was always storming out of an interview (almost always with him).
Outrage over the style in which George conducted his notorious Q&As was not uncommon. No topic was off-limits; on the contrary, the more off-limits the subject, the more it became the topic. “We have to be a little controversial,” he declared in one Q&A, “or what’s the point?” In the analog days, before the famous took to blogs and Twitter to catalogue their wounded sensibilities, they wrote letters to the editor (or had their lawyers write them), and I received more than a few on the subject of George’s Q&As. What George never bothered to explain was that the mild but real indignities of fame—autograph seekers interrupting meals, humiliating casting calls, the day the scripts stop showing up—were actually worse than the mischief he would create during an interview that the subject had consented to with eyes wide open. And with George there was never any question about what you were getting into. If you knew the game he was playing, you could play along, and after the initial shock wore off, you could be as candid as you liked and still come across as a pillar of discretion.
In an age when pop stars and spin-class addicts earnestly refer to themselves as “survivors,” George is authentically a member of that class. If you were gay and black and stylish in New York in the 1980s, the outlook ahead was anything but guaranteed: you weren’t exactly setting money aside in a 401(k). The “Downtown” that George celebrated for decades has been recast and repaved for the stroller set, and as long-term leases expired, the corner newsstand where R.O.M.E. was sold made way for an ATM, then a Starbucks, and finally a vacant, glass-walled high-rise. George is still in his apartment in Greenwich Village, still taking your measure from behind his ever-present sunglasses, and still reminding us that we could all use a bit more mischief in our lives before the age of the individual passes us by for good.
—Graydon Carter
INTRODUCTION
WHERE IT ALL BEGAN
GW definitely believes that People magazine is the reason for it. People is the reason I live in New York City, and the reason I’ve become a carnivore of pop culture.
The first time I lay my hands on a copy of the magazine, I was a skinny fifteen-year-old growing up on the British West Indian island of Jamaica. The nurse at the elitist West Indian boys’ boarding school I attended, Munro College (or “Jamaica’s Eton,” as people often refer to it) in Malvern, was the one who introduced me to the glossy American weekly; it was my first taste of the documentation of celebrity culture. And it was at that moment, circa 1978, that I began to realize my life’s calling. For this shy, insecure boy in the bushes of Jamaica, the faraway world of People—Brooke Shields, Andy Warhol, Truman Capote—was something foreign and exotic to fantasize about.
In Arce Sitam Quis Occultabit: “A City Set on a Hill Cannot Be Hid.” So went the motto for Munro College. Our illustrious headmaster, Richard Roper, would never let us forget how privileged we were to be part of a citadel that had groomed young men for more than 122 years and produced more Rhodes Scholars than any other institution in the West Indies. All Munro boys were reminded every day of our academic lineage when we gathered in the dining hall for the three daily prison-like rations—looming oil portraits and Hall of Fame rosters of famous Munronians from the beginning of the twentieth century lined the walls.
Acclimatizing to the rigors of boarding school was a particularly difficult task for me. I came from a rather . . . well-to-do upbringing, so living in the cold, creaking, aged dormitories and sleeping on a tiny worn-thin mattress for seven years took a lot of getting used to. Dealing with bullies, cold showers, khaki unif
orms, and the daily prayer at the crack of dawn in the school chapel was awful. Besides, GW was not blessed with the physical prowess or the necessary gung-ho jock mentality to survive in such an austere place. No, boarding school did not help the self-esteem of the young GW, and so he spent much of his free time in the living room of the nurse’s rather chic quarters reading People magazine. That was far more interesting than, say, getting his shins banged up on the hockey field. Or being forced to don white flannel and play that stupid game of cricket.
The last three years of boarding school were the toughest. But they also turned out to be the prime of GW’s life. Something began to bloom. . . . The shy, nervous, often-perplexed, unhappy, skinny little boy was beginning to come into his own.
The Jamaica Broadcasting Corporation (JBC), at the time the only television station in Jamaica, had somehow managed to produce a wildly popular trivia show called Schools’ Challenge Quiz, in which “quiz bowl” teams from the leading high schools across Jamaica would compete against one another during weekly live broadcasts. In no time, Schools’ Challenge Quiz had grown to become the most watched television program in Jamaican history, what with the jangled nerves of the contestants and the exciting, nail-biting tension (many a match went to the final buzzer). The entire nation would gather before their TV sets on Tuesday nights to watch the broadcast, waiting to see who would be knocked out of the competition and who would move on. The two Jamaican high schools with the most astute quartet of general-knowledge superstars would square off in the grand finale.
Being on the Munro College Quiz Team certainly rivaled being a star jock. The school’s football (Americans say soccer) team was steeped in glorious history, and they were definitely considered the school’s superstars, the campus elite (along with the cricket players and, to some extent, track-and-field athletes). But still, being one of the four members of the prestigious Quiz Team was like being thrust into the stratosphere.
It was the “den mother” school nurse who actually suggested that GW try out for Munro’s much-revered Quiz Team, and I made the cut. My specialties were English literature, current affairs, and film. The two seasons that GW was a member of the Munro College Quiz Team (1977–78, 1978–79), the school was in the finals. Enough said. The campus wimp had somehow evolved into the campus celebrity. Fan mail was pouring in from across the country; suddenly every jock superstar on campus wanted to be best friends with GW. I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed the glare of live television lights and the ensuing rapture from the general populace that accompanied being a TV star.
The first year we were in the finals of the JBC Schools’ Challenge Quiz, this budding TV star found himself emboldened by the sudden attention of one particular campus jock. It was a bewildering time, and it became increasingly difficult for GW to fathom what was happening as his affection for the jock grew, and vice versa. Sexual curiosity was rampant, and GW was more than intrigued with the notion of exploring man-to-man sexual tendencies.
One must keep in mind that homosexuality was a greater taboo in Jamaica than in even the ultra-conservative, Bible-thumping parts of the United States. And to even declare that those boy-to-boy peccadilloes were unquestionably some of GW’s fondest memories of growing up in a Jamaican boarding school would undeniably cause a monumental jaw-dropping reaction from sea to shining sea across the Caribbean. Oh well.
From the love affair with that incredibly hot jock, GW went on to experience something quite similar with one of the leading professional athletes on the island of Jamaica. And that, too, was unforgettable. By the end of the second consecutive appearance in the quiz bowl finals, GW was well versed in the art of having a jock-boy love affair. The last two years as a Munronian afforded me some of the most cherished encounters of male bonding.
The year 1979 quickly became one of GW’s best ever. Not only did Munro College win the JBC Schools’ Challenge Quiz, but GW won the individual prize given for the English literature category. The welcome we received back at the city set on a hill after we’d been victorious was a sight to see: it was almost like a New York welcome for the pennant-winning Yankees. On top of all that, GW surprised everyone, most of all himself, by passing all four Cambridge International Examinations–Advanced Level and being accepted to the University of Georgia in Athens. The American adventure was about to unfold.
Nothing could have prepared GW for the culture shock of a small, Southern college town. My freshman-year roommate, one big, blond surfer mastodon from New Jersey, whose name GW feels no need to recall, was the ultimate embodiment of the word “primate.” Every morning, for one solid year, GW was roused from his slumber by the blazing boom-box anthems of Bruce Springsteen. And most every night, the poor GW was forced to deal with trying to sleep while listening to the groaning and the grunting from the small bed a mere few feet away as the primate plowed his assortment of bimbos into ecstatic oblivion. This was not at all what GW had expected his new life in America to be all about.
The separation of races and the cliques fueled by the fraternity and sorority life at the University of Georgia were also troubling. For foreign students it was doubly hard to fit in. But GW has long lived by the adage “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” And if Athens, Georgia, did one thing well, it was to hone GW’s “downtown sensibility.” The city was ripe with beatnik creativity, and had one of the strongest, most influential underground music scenes in the country. The B-52s were just about to head off to New York City (and international stardom) when GW arrived in town. R.E.M. was still a local garage band, wowing us all with free concerts on Legion Field. Pylon and Love Tractor, also hip, well-known bands out of Athens, could be found on any given night at the legendary 40 Watt Club. The scene was very postmodern Haight-Ashbury.
When I wasn’t exploring the Atlanta scene or toying with the insipid food in the college’s Bolton Hall cafeteria, I was treading through the latest copies of People and Interview magazines, daydreaming about living in New York City, hanging out with Andy Warhol and Truman Capote, and editing my very own magazine, which I’d name Rome. A dear friend of mine, Mark Thomas, suggested that Rome become R.O.M.E., standing for “Revelers of My Ego.” The seed was planted. As luck would have it, in early 1982, the college led a group of around twelve seniors on an exploratory trip to New York City. Fate determined that we would stay in the Roosevelt Hotel, almost right across from 350 Madison Avenue, then the hallowed home of glossy magazine conglomerate Condé Nast. GW was smitten; he knew he had no alternative but to move to New York City.
And so, in the winter of 1984, armed with a Southern college degree in journalism, GW bought a one-way ticket from Hartsfield to LaGuardia. The Eastern Airlines 727 arrived in New York without the plane losing an engine or any of its skin, which in itself was a major feat for Eastern Airlines at the time.
My first jobs in New York City were in the advertising industry, where I was first a glorified secretary to the creative director on the fabulous, newly acquired J. C. Penney account at N. W. Ayer, and then a junior copywriter, before joining UniWorld Group, the leading African-American advertising agency at the time. At UniWorld, GW busted butt on the Burger King, RCA, and Coors beer accounts. He hated each and every minute of the corporate culture, and the phony world of the advertising business. He prayed to be fired, and soon his prayers were answered.
GW, happily armed with a green card, loved America even more when he realized that being on unemployment meant that he still got paid for six months! Those unemployment checks meant that GW could fully immerse himself in the full-time pursuit of one of his life’s goals: becoming best friends with Andy Warhol. Living in the hip East Village in a one-bedroom apartment share, GW spent his days trying to meet with all the cool editors at magazines like Spy and New York Talk, and at night he would roam the social whirl of Gotham. He finally met Andy Warhol for the first time at the Puck Building on Lafayette Street. Andy’s hand was clammy, but he was very nice. And GW will never forget self-proclaimed downtown curator Bair
d Jones graciously spouting, “George Wayne is genius, Andy.” Andy wasn’t impressed, but that was okay.
No matter how hard I tried, no one at those snobby downtown magazines would give GW any writing jobs because, well, I had no clips, no published work to show. That’s when I decided it was time to compile all those fabulous story ideas bouncing around in my head and bring my own magazine to life. And so, in 1986, R.O.M.E. was born. GW cut, pasted, laid out, and Xeroxed about sixty copies. They sold out at four dollars apiece. GW had no idea that he was about to lead a movement, a revolution, but R.O.M.E. was an undeniable hit from the day it was born. An instant hit which found an immediate audience—my little homemade Xeroxed magazine! Before there was Wallpaper, before there was Visionaire, before there was Joe, there was R.O.M.E. By the time the fifth volume of R.O.M.E. appeared in the early 1990s, Karl Lagerfeld, LeRoy Neiman, Isaac Mizrahi, Azzedine Alaïa, Alex Katz, Steven Meisel, Graydon Carter—leading image makers of the time—had become major fans.
Then one day the savvy magazine editor David Hershkovits, who founded the downtown magazine Paper, bought a copy of R.O.M.E., took it home, read it, and decided to track down this George Wayne person. GW considers the day he landed in the Paper magazine offices on lower Broadway a benchmark moment: David Hershkovits offered George Wayne his own column. GW was now truly the arbiter he had always considered himself to be.
It was shortly after that when GW fulfilled yet another dream: working at Interview magazine. Ingrid Sischy was the new editor in chief; GW was hired as assistant editor to Ingrid’s second-in-command at the time, Glenn O’Brien. And wow, what a crazy time that was. Given all the out-of-control egos in that office, GW soon begged Ingrid Sischy to offer him a contributing editor role, a position that she granted and which he holds to this day on the Interview masthead. Interview, of course, is known for the art of the interview, and it was in this arena that GW realized his extra-deft mastery of the celebrity question-and-answer format. He conducted one of the first interviews in America with the newly arrived model ingénue Naomi Campbell, which sparked a media frenzy (and a tempestuous relationship with Naomi Campbell, which also continues to this day).