After many and legendary years at 150 East 35th Street, National Review moved to 215 Lexington Avenue. That was at the end of 1996. Two years later, I came along. (I don’t mean that I was born but that I arrived at NR.) Never will I forget my first phone call with Jack Fowler. He was then the associate publisher, I believe, and would rise to the rank of capo. In a classic Bronx voice, he said, “Jay, welcome aboard and all that stuff.” (I have switched his original language to “stuff.”) He had me at hello, so to speak.
Now we are moving once more, to 19 West 44th Street. (Have I mentioned that this is Manhattan in New York City?) In preparation for our move, we are sorting through and clearing out old stuff, some of which has not been touched in many years. I came upon a file of letters and notes — even printed-out emails. They come from the famous and infamous. The soon-to-be famous, and the soon-to-be infamous. From a range of types.
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