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 riters,
especially of the hack variety, tend to have strong opinions about
editors, who have the generally unenviable task of removing danglers,
inanities, and lawsuit bait from our would-be masterpieces. Having
been in league with editors for 20 or so years, I've had my share
of beasts: Some edited with swords, some with machetes, and one
named Cheshire with a chainsaw. Then there is Wladyslaw Pleszczyncski
(spelling approximate), the longstanding editor of The American
Spectator, who now finds himself between victims.
We first met in the early 1980s after his boss, R. Emmett Tyrrell
Jr., suggested a piece attacking Mr. Rogers, who at the time aroused
certain suspicions among astute observers. For reasons long forgotten,
that piece was never written, though a piece about deer hunting
with two editors — Chainsaw Cheshire and Rich Vigilante —
took its place. The latter would later play a greater role in Wlady's
life.
I was later told that Wlady wanted to spike the hunting piece (in
which the only prey that fell was a large herd of beer and liquor
bottles), but that cannot be held against him. Coming from the more
precious provinces of California, the highly urbane Wlady was not
accustomed to encountering rednecks who hunted from the front seat
of a Cutlass Supreme. For a time, I also suspected the spiking had
something to do with a prominent divot in his majestic forehead.
For reasons also long forgotten, it was assumed the divot was the
work of a Communist rifleman who had sniped Wlady during a visit
to his ancestral Polish home. As it turns out, the real culprit
was a friend who lost his grip on a baseball bat — an incident
that would become somewhat symbolic of Wlady's later life.
For the sad fact is, friends and former friends have worked overtime
to bean him. I am especially guilty. Like many hacks, mine is a
somewhat low sensibility, and so nothing is more delightful than
putting one past an editor. Because Wlady is the embodiment of old-world
restraint and decorum, he was an especially plump target, though
success was very rare. A large number of salacious references, some
touching on bestiality, scatology, and necromancy, fell victim to
his higher standards. He even canned an observation that if Moby
Dick has shook his tail as fast as Shania Twain shakes hers, Ahab
would have never caught up with him. His restraint extended to striking
crude references about mutual foes, including the Commies we hated
with such a passion.
That is worth keeping mind because of an ongoing attack on Wlady
by a former friend and colleague, David Brock, who has charged,
among other things, that Wlady is given to stentorian pronouncements
and is also possessed by an "us versus them" mentality regarding
political adversaries. My experience was quite different. Wlady
was quite willing to run pieces that irked his conservative allies.
A jab at maniacal self-promoter Jude Wanniski, for instance, was
entitled "Jude the Semi-Obscure." He also ran a highly critical
piece against the Unification Church, which in those days was stuffing
money into countless pockets (including my own). He also happily
ran a somewhat pointed characterization of Washington Times
editor Wesley Pruden's relationship with his bosses (penned by yours
truly after my departure from Lunar Orbit): "Pen to paper, tongue
to boot."
More to the point, he was one of David Brock's most persistent defenders.
He certainly defended him against my criticisms. This in part reflected
Wlady's belief that the sex exposes were legitimate (I did not agree).
But they also reflected a quality every writer seeks in an editor:
That of the protective and loyal colleague.
David Brock didn't deserve such a colleague and friend. Meanwhile,
Wlady finds himself between jobs. His 21 years with the Spectator
are over, as the magazine takes a new direction and its website,
which was Wlady's final posting, assumes room temperature (as Bob
Tyrrell might put it). As it happens, the editor Vigilante was the
one to pull the plug. Ain't fate something.
Many years ago, when attempting to escape a stint at government
service, Wlady agreed to run an ad (for free) whose headline read:
"Hire Shiflett." Today, the imperative is to "Hire Wlady." He needs
the work, and some of us hacks need a friendly editor to send us
off on stories and keep the checks flowing — and try to slip
some juicy stuff by. In addition, our trade cannot afford to lose
any of its short supply of gentlemen, Gentlemen, and there is none
greater than our friend Wladyslaw.
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