New York - Influential People In Politics
Number One - Michael Bloomberg (Mayor)
Number Two - Patricia Harris (First deputy mayor)
Number Three - Eliot Spitzer (NY Attorney general)
Number Four - Isac Weinberger (Political gossip)
No one does more to shape the rumor of the day—and, hence, drive the city’s political conversation—than does Weinberger, a gruff, rotund Hasidic Jew who works for the city. Weinberger spends his days on the phone shaking down people for tips—who’s thinking of dropping out of what race, what a candidate’s internal polls are showing—and promptly passing them on to the next caller (without the benefit, it should be said, of any fact-checking, only increasing his power).
posted by VOS IZ NEIAS @ 5/07/2006 10:02:00 PM
2 Comments:
At 9:16 AM,
Anonymous said…
דער גרעסטער "לשון הרע" טרעגער
At 11:13 AM,
Anonymous said…
Issue of 2002-11-04
Of all the bad news that has recently hit the gubernatorial campaign of H. Carl McCall, none, perhaps, was more dispiriting than the fact, heretofore unreported, that Isac Weinberger, of Brooklyn, has pretty much conceded the race to George Pataki. "McCall will lose," he said quietly last week, amid a crowd of fellow McCall supporters at a fund-raiser for Congressman Charles Rangel in midtown. In the dreary land of city and state politics, Isac (as he is known) has invented a singular niche—that of extreme political buff and magpie. Among political professionals, a constant susurration of gossip and information warfare underscores every campaign season; civilians may not hear or care about any of it, but it often determines who represents them in the end. Isac, a unique hybrid of operative, broker, bureaucrat, groupie, and, above all, gossipmonger, probably spends more time than anyone in town moving this chatter along.
Isac is a fifty-five-year-old Hasidic Jew of the Satmar sect who was born in Hungary and brought up in Williamsburg. He is squat and big-bellied, outwardly gruff but often beaming. He began ringing doorbells for Brooklyn Democrats when he was fourteen. His favorite politician of all time is Abe Beame, and it angers him that no building has been named for him. Isac has worked for the city since 1990 (he was a staunch supporter of David Dinkins) and now has a job at a department that he prefers not to name, it being unclear how much official business he conducts there. "I have a desk and a phone," he has been known to say. He makes good use of this phone by passing the hours calling up reporters at every paper in town. "We call him Brooklyn borough chief," Tom Topousis, who covers politics for the Post, says. Isac usually checks in with Topousis several times a day. "So, vhat's cooking?" Isac asks, in his low growl.
"I always feel compelled to tell him something," Topousis said. "It's like I have two masters: my editor and Isac." In exchange, Isac will tell him something: who's endorsing whom, who's lunching with whose enemy, who's writing what for tomorrow. (Or he may bark, "Your story is nothing!") The information is usually good and often useful. "You sell and you buy, you buy and you sell," Isac said. In Room 9, the press headquarters at City Hall, this process repeats itself throughout the morning: one reporter will hang up with Isac, and five seconds later another reporter's phone will ring. ("Incoming!" is another way of saying, "It's Isac!") It is believed that Isac can disseminate a piece of gossip to ten reporters in fifteen minutes.
"He calls me up regularly to pick me dry," Richard Schrader, the political consultant, said. "After he hangs up, the reporters are on me within minutes. It's the verbal equivalent of a boomerang."
For such enthusiasm and efficiency, Isac has earned the admiration, canned though it may sound, of Democratic Party leaders past and present. "He's a dedicated Democratic activist who always has a smile on his face," Hillary Clinton said, through a spokeswoman. "I think he's terrific," said Dinkins.
No one ever writes about Isac, but the reporters do talk about him among themselves. At political events, when Isac buttonholes Bill Clinton or Mario Cuomo, the reporters say, "Who's the guy standing next to Isac?" When Isac is introduced at such functions, they call his cursory dignitarial wave "the Queen Mum." They marvel at his ubiquity: there have been near-simultaneous Isac sightings at events in neighborhoods as far apart as Borough Park and Forest Hills. They speculate that there must be more than one of him.
At the Rangel fund-raiser last week, Isac, in his black coat and yarmulke, stood just inside the door, restlessly awaiting the arrival of elected officials. He greeted many of them with bear hugs, unless they were women, in which case he spoke without touching them. ("They understand," he said. "It's my religion.") Between greetings, Isac stood alone and revelled in the spectacle of politicians and donors milling around to the strains of "The Girl from Ipanema." The arrival of Andrew Cuomo, who dropped out of the race for governor in September (a turn of events for which Isac does not completely disavow responsibility), had Isac practically bouncing. He embraced Cuomo and said, "You'll get them next time. Like I told you in December, in any other race I will support you, as I always supported your father, but this was not your time. It was McCall's." The look that crossed Cuomo's face was, you might say, one of professional forbearance.
Later, as Isac nudged his way toward Rangel, he found himself standing near the actor Chevy Chase, the evening's master of ceremonies. Isac seemed uncharacteristically unimpressed. Someone said, "There's Chevy Chase. Do you know him?"
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