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New 'Village Voice' Editor: David Blum

The following announcement was released by Village Voice Media this afternoon.

DAVID BLUM IS THE NEW EDITOR OF THE VILLAGE VOICE

Veteran New York magazine writer and editor David Blum has been named editor-in-chief of the Village Voice.

Blum, who began his career as a Wall Street Journal staff reporter covering urban affairs and went on to become an editor and writer at New York magazine, Esquire magazine, and The New York Times Magazine, will start on September 12, said Village Voice Media executive editor Michael Lacey.

"I believe in the limitless possibilities of weeklies, and in the power of narrative journalism to change the way people think and feel," said Blum. "I'm honored to lead an institution as vibrant and as essential to New York City life as the Voice. I want New Yorkers to read the Voice, and to be moved, entertained, amused, confronted and compelled by what it has to say."

"The Voice's readers and writers will find a great collaborator and a smart leader in David Blum," said Lacey. "He is one of us."

After starting at the Journal in 1979, Blum moved to Esquire in 1983 as an associate editor, editing features in all areas and also creating the magazine's "Smart Money" section. From 1985 to 1992, he was a contributing editor at New York, writing numerous cover stories for the magazine including a fly-on-the-wall account of the Signature Theatre Company's remarkable struggle to produce Edward Albee and last year's penetrating analysis of the anchor dilemmas that afflicted national television executives following the death of Peter Jennings.

Blum was a regular contributor to The New York Times Magazine from 1995 to 2000, penning cover stories and features, and served as deputy editor at the magazine's Part II's in 1999 and 2000. He has also written features for Vanity Fair and the New Republic, and since 2002 has been an adjunct professor at the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, where he teaches the magazine writing workshop and works with students to produce nationally syndicated news stories for the Columbia News Service. For the last four years, he has also served as the television critic for the New York Sun.

Blum is the author of two books, 1992's Flash in the Pan: The Life and Death of an American Restaurant, which chronicled the birth and demise of a downtown New York City eatery and was named a "notable book" by the New York Times. In 2002 he wrote Tick...Tick...Tick...: The Long Life and Turbulent Times of 60 Minutes, a history of the legendary TV news program.

"If 60 Minutes is about good storytelling, then it has found its Scheherazade in David Blum," wrote the New Yorker's Ken Auletta. "In gripping fashion, readers are introduced to characters worthy of a novel….Tick…Tick…Tick… is a narrative as fascinating as the best 60 Minutes stories."

Born in Queens, Blum graduated from the University of Chicago in 1977 with a degree in English literature. He now lives in Manhattan with his wife, Terri Minsky, a television writer-producer, and their two children, Sam, age 12, and Annie, age 11.

 
  • Charles 08/21/2010 8:40:00 PM

    Please take a look at Elliott De Cesare's work as he was the youngest Artist selected to paint 1 of 24 sculptures to be auctioned off for the ASPCA. Over 5,000 other artists applied for this project. Below is the link to Elliott's show which is being held in SOHO and then displayed in the Streets of NYC and finally auctioned off to help the cause of abandoned and abused animals throughout out the world. CLICK HERE http://artdogsandcatsofny.com/art-dogs/elliott-decesare/

  • CC 03/26/2010 8:22:00 AM

    dammit. i didn't know this was a blog or a message board. please remove. people don't do reporting anymore anyway.

  • cc 03/26/2010 8:19:00 AM

    Just sent to head of HRA--very very short note on the tortuous life of a 9-11 WTC initial responder and single adoptive mother. Other Agency Complaint Message: Please be advised this is my second letter, but with more info. I had one of your insipid, bully, ACS goons at my door again tonight, after my entertaning (even supervising) maybe one dozen caseworkers for about nine months. None offered any concrete help to this disabled 9-11 responder with a kid with bad ADHD. Oh, shes going to take my kid away, this one--Boone. (sp) I told her that after 9 months nobody helped and that this is getting old now. So if I dont go to a meeting tomorrow at 4 pm at Williams street they are going to take my kid and take me to court and yada, and basically its too damn bad if I have a doctors appointment. Again, if I didnt say so already, 500 bucks and a couple of referrals (they dont even know what resources are out there, btw) may have saved the city, what?, a hundred grand in salaries? I have already begun to appeal to the press and so on even before todays new round of harassment. This is a movie now, if not a three section newspaper feature. M/M: Ms First Name: Company: Your agencies are very very very Sick

  • Harry Reynolds 03/15/2009 11:02:00 AM

    The Right to Sleep in the Tompkins Square Public Library in 1935 By Harry Reynolds It is generally believed that public libraries are only for the benefit of all who enter to read. Not so. In the winter of 1935, my bachelor uncle Lester went for the first time to the Tompkins Square Library or, more exactly, he entered the library to struggle through a hangover and he couldn�t manage another block. The librarian, Ms Watson - brown dress, white neck collar, pumpkin round face, colorless lips, framed glasses, spinster, pale blue eyes, hair in a bun at the back - all of her approached Lester. "May I ask what you intend to do here? You look as if you are about to fall asleep", she said sharply. "I was praying", said Lester. "Well, but this isn�t a church, mister. It�s a library. You don�t pray in a barber shop, do you?" "As a matter of fact, madam," said Lester, " I do pray in a barber shop." "What do you pray for in a barber shop?", said Ms Watson bending over the table, closing her eyelids like a cop. "I pray for a naked librarian", said Lester. "Well, said Ms Watson, "let�s see whether you get one at the station house. I�m calling the cops right now". "No, you won�t", said Lester. "If you do, I�ll put a curse on you and your family and believe me there will be a death among you man or boy in six months!" (I was then eight and loved Lester for the way he cursed, tersely, in good Saxon prose.) Dead silence........Ms Watson looked steadfastly at Lester, her eyelids closing, her mouth tightening as if she were about to spit, and then, raising her fist in the air, she burst into an uncontrollable cry, like a baby. Everyone in the library ran to her asking what had happened. "Did he touch you?""We know who he is!" "Tell me and I�ll give him one right now!", and so on. Lester didn�t move. He looked at the mob, such as it was - there were only five of them with a median age of 68 - and he said to them in a deep, beautifully rounded Irish voice, "I�ll put a curse on her if she calls the cops. I was about to fall asleep at this table after a day�s work and no one to go home to and you know how lonely that can make a man feel, don�t you?" They indeed did know; it was why they were in the library, time-servers, no one to go home to, life dull as rain. Not a one of them had a job, nor did Lester have one, but when the library closed they were going home to tell of the job they nearly had that day, the interest that was shown by a certain hint of the employer, the way he nodded approvingly when told of the experience and references, they all count for something or else they�re nothing, isn�t that so, and if you yourself had been there and had seen how the clerk himself said good night with his thumb up and a smile thrown in, the feeling I suddenly had, as in a hymn, when I walked up the steps to the flat, and how in a dream only last night I was awakened with a start at a voice that I swear to Jesus Christ was my dead mother�s voice, a sign, a real sign it was, that I was soon going to have a proper job. And so it was that from that day in 1935 until 1939, September, when Poland was invaded and Ms Watson died alone in the corner of a second floor room in St Rose of Lima�s Home for the Incurably Ill on Pitt Street on the Lower East Side, it was in that four year period that anyone could sleep peacefully in the Tompkins Square Library on East 10th Street between Avenue A and Avenue B, after which God sent us World War II and everyone had a job, and no one slept in the Tompkins Square Public Library. Harry Reynolds Bradley Road

 

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