Spy magazine’s influence on my writing, my sense of humor, my career, my life cannot be understated. From that fated day I stumbled upon a 1988 issue in a Buy for Less grocery store in Oklahoma City of all places, I was hooked. Never before had a magazine been created seemingly just for me. Never mind I had spent a grand total of 10 days in New York, which served not only as the magazine’s home but the recipient of most of its well-aimed arrows – its unique mix of satire, investigative reporting and design went straight to my heart.
So why, then, did I hesitate to read SPY: THE FUNNY YEARS, a warts-and-all account of its dozen years of existence? Because the chintzy powers that be at Miramax Books ignored my two requests for a review copy? Perhaps.