It was hard to miss Stanley Mieses, a 30-year-old staff writer in baggy black pants, Hawaiian shirt, turquoise vest and polka dot tie, in the New Yorker's staid midtown office. After he introduced himself to me on my first day as an editorial assistant in 1983, my boss Helen whispered, "Watch out for him."
I wondered why. He seemed like a harmless, nice Jewish guy, taking me to lunch at the famed Algonquin across the street, ordering salad while sharing the merits of Weight Watchers. To a 22-year-old aspiring writer from the Midwest making $200 a week, he was a fascinating raconteur and rebel, as he chronicled being the only child of Holocaust survivors who grew up in Inwood, attended Boston University and spoke Spanish and German, with Yiddish sprinkled in. He'd been a Daily News copyboy when the music columnist OD'd.
