Arguably only occasionally reliable as a critic, an Addison DeWitt manque prone to gushy paeans and snide dismissals, he was always an acid-tongued commentator and a decent interviewer. If his talents were more Walter Winchell than Walter Kerr, he was once a formidable voice, inhabiting the Venn diagram of gossip adjacent dish and serious (enough) journalism. For boomers, he was the first larger-than-life chronicler of celebrity that wasn't from a hatted lady of Hollywood. His brand of off-the-cuff bitchery matched his permanent sneer, which made him the perfect chat show guest.
As a teenager, I loved reading and watching him. He held onto his boyish southern mien, and like most New Yorkers who arrive from elsewhere, had an affectionate eye for Manhattan's allure: he sold the city as the grand crossroads that it remains. It's impossible to imagine show business reporting the last 60 years without his ripe marginalia as annotation. RIP
"I'm a comedian, but in my spare time, things bother me." Garry Shandling
