The De-'Radar'-ing: Last Call
Radar had its last hurrah last night, when staffers and significant others and friends and not-always-friends gathered at a West Chelsea bar for a final night of drunken excess. It was a pleasant affair; subdued, of course, but not despondent, more happy and nostalgic then angry and upset. Magnanimous Maer — now suddenly sans expense account — even picked up the tab for the first hour or so of drinks.
The evening's high point came when articles editor Jeremy Gerard — like Roshan, a New York vet — took the mic for a fond and funny tribute to Maer, the magazine, and its staff. Gerard had some nice lines about the joy of working for a magazine he believed in and at a place where he was happy to come into work each day. There was something akin to Lou Grant's "I treasure you people" line from the Mary Tyler Moore finale, but we can't tell you exactly what it was because we weren't expecting speeches and therefore had neither pen nor paper.
Then Gerard presented a very surprised Roshan with a framed faux Radar cover. What was on it? There's more — and a larger image — after the jump.
It was yet another George Lois homage, this one with Maer himself in the St. Sebestian pose. "Vanity Maer: Through the looking glass into America's most dangerous quarterly," was the lead coverline, complimented by a series of other (largely inside) jokes: "Petite Mort: The messy truth about a billionaire who pulls out early"; "They wanted a magazine with balls — but no Pecker?"; "How to solicit death threats."
Maer seemed almost jolly through the night — somewhat surprising at first, but less so when you learn he's leaving today on a much-deserved vacation far, far away. ("I don't think you can get Page Six or Gawker there," he noted.) Several drinks in, everyone else was jolly, too.
Except for bizcard-flinging creative director Mark Michaelson, who suddenly wrapped his arm around our shoulders, drew us tight to him, and started whispering in our ear. There was something about being mean, vindictive, small rats (or some such — we'd had a few glasses of wine). Then something about watching out. And then he pantomimed slitting our throat. With a Sharpie. Which he then proceeded to uncap and drop in our Montepulciano.
It was time to go home.
