THE LIFE, WORK AND CHRONICLES OF JEFF KOYEN: REFORMED ITINERANT, OCCASIONAL WRITER AND FRIEND TO ALMOST ALL DOGS

50 Most Loathsome New Yorkers -- 2003
If you want to get shocked and awed by mail, ask New York Press readers who they hate. For the last two issues, we've passed the mic to the people for their thoughts on our first annual 50 Most Loathsome New Yorkers list, and an avalanche of ill will ensued. We'd need a Top 200 list to include every loathed local recommended to us, but we'd at least like to mention some of the more popular names. We were urged to include Pataki, Bloomberg, Giuliani, both New York senators, Press figures like Russ Smith and Alan Cabal, Ben Affleck, J-Lo and some guy who works at the city's main library. We got votes for people's neighbors, herpes and even one for the New York ghost of Bobby Valentine.
By what criteria did we prepare the final list? Loathsome, yes, but we were looking for people who were loathsome in an especially New York way. Thus Ben Affleck, who received many, many votes and may even have a part-time Manhattan mailing address, remains very much a Hollywood asshole. Yet Martha Stewart, who heads out to either Connecticut or Long Island after a hard day of being a bitch, handily makes the list.
We'd like to thank everyone who took the time to suggest their favorite loathsome New Yorker. The two top Readers' Poll winners are acknowledged in the following pages.
See you next year.
 
50 Naomi Campbell, Model
The quintessential don't-you-know-who-I-am celebrity has made headlines for her Mansonesque behavior toward bellhops, assistants and other people with real jobs. It's easy to hate models; we'd all like to make a living getting fucked in speedboats and staying hooked on other peoples' heroin. But a model who's an ungrateful asshole to boot actually deserves the inevitable cruel fate of her lot: an early middle age of sagging tits, Botox, secret Rogaine treatments and fat stockbroker boyfriends with hairy backs.
49 Jonathan Franzen , Author
If only al Qaeda could be conned into a prisoner exchange: We get the retarded adopted son of bin Laden's plumber's apprentice, they get Jonathan Franzen. Alas, they're smarter than that. The author of The Corrections made his career by loudly offering himself as a leading candidate to write the next Catch-22, despite the fact that he has absolutely no sense of humor. Has made himself the leader of a self-congratulatory public campaign to bring back "serious" writing, which apparently means 576 pages of namedropping, contrived situations and agonizingly overwrought metaphors. (The Corrections has a full page on the theme of "the alarm bell of anxiety.") The reason people don't read books anymore isn't because they're too lazy to turn off the Knicks game; it's because the New York publishing world makes darlings out of writers who seem proud of how much they suck.
48 Rock Revivalists, "Musicians"
When the Strokes wormed their way into the pop charts, US Weekly and Drew Barrymore's well-worn snatch, the search began for the nonexistent New York scene that spawned their moppet rock. Innumerable acts applied for next-big-thing status, offering a high-concept, rock-crit-friendly crossbreed (as in "we're a cross between late-60s new wave and 80s electro, but with a whole Morrissey thing going on") in a cutey-pie wrapping. Eschewing practice time in favor of constructing stupid wardrobes from retro boutiques, and choosing fashion over fist-in-the-face rocking, New York rockers have killed the slim chance that a genuine scene would be born anytime soon.
47 Paul Gigot, Editor
The keeper of the Wall Street Journal editorial page is probably best-known for snagging an undeserved Pulitzer Prize for Commentary in 2000 and for his notorious "bourgeois riot" column following the 2000 presidential elections. The real reason to loathe the silver-haired conservative icon is his role in moving the WSJ away from its legitimate role as a champion of genuinely sober, conservative economics into that of a partisan, kneejerk cheerleader for the maniacal deficit-spending and radical Evremonde politics of the current elite. Thanks to people like Gigot, the word "conservative" no longer means anything at all.
46 Yoko Ono, Artist
This shameless, atonal publicity hag and lawsuit machine grows more frightening with age. The second wife of the only good Beatle regularly competes with Kim Jong Il and Louis Farrakhan in televised international sunglasses competitions, but otherwise sends skin crawling with helium-filled public statements and conceptual art that makes you want to give nuclear war a chance. What's the only thing worse than this Godzilla nemesis moaning like a wounded banshee over a minimalist cello? Her son Sean on stage with a $700 six-string and that shit-eating grin on his face.
45 Vito Fossella, Politician
Proving, thankfully, that Staten Island is as close as George Bush gets to having a foothold in New York City. The first prominent area politician to back W's bid for the presidency has the kind of face that you last saw trying to sell you a '97 Altima. When he's not busy at his day job of being a chirping yes-man for the administration, he tackles such important issues as stoplight timing and parking-ticket immunity for U.N. diplomats. His ingenious political innovation for 2004: petitioning to have the Yankees and Mets play a regular-season subway series in honor of the Republican convention, to be held here in the summer of 2004.
44 Nas and Jay-Z, Rappers
These endlessly feuding rappers should be merged to form one, giant, illiterate organism called Notorious S.U.C.K. Either that, or they should stop pretending and jump into bed together already. In a naked attempt to recapture the marketing magic of the Tupac-Biggie war -- only minus the crowd-pleasing deaths of the principals -- the two lackluster rappers spent years trading various asinine threats and insults, culminating in Jay-Z's inspired crack about leaving "condoms in tha baby seat" and Nas' passionate cry, "How could Nas be garbage? Semi-autos at your cartilege" [sic]. It was lame if it was all an act. It was even lamer if they were serious.
43 Gabrielle Hamilton, Restaurateur
Chef/owner of Prune in the East Village where she peddles overpriced WASP comfort food to slumming, Upper East Side daytrippers. Wrote an obnoxious article for Food & Wine in which she complained about the slacker restaurants that surround hers and how she just couldn't relate to the neighbors.
42 Sander Hicks, "Guerilla Journalist"
Horns and Halos just about broke our hearts. Since we'd never crossed paths with Soft Skull Press founder Sander Hicks, our respect for his publishing company was always on the better side of much. We're not dumb enough to think that all documentaries present their subjects accurately, so we're willing to grant Hicks the benefit of the doubt and say that he's still fighting the good fight, despite the apparent grandstanding, arrogance and self-interest. Those tears at the end of the documentary, however, left us no choice but to include him on this list. Even the best-minded indies can become self-serving nitwits.
41 Steve Sands, Celebrity Photographer
This hyper-aggressive New York-based paparazzo is considered a vile, intrusive monster even by other paparazzi, an amazing accomplishment. "He'll stop at nothing," one gossip columnist told us. Once told Time magazine, which was doing an article about the role of paparazzi in the death of Lady Diana, that the abhorrent tactics of celebrity photographers were the fault of the celebrities themselves: "The paparazzi have become more aggressive because celebrities and their publicists have got so controlling," he said, before tossing a baby into a bear trap in order to get George Clooney's attention outside of the Golden Globes.
40 Carson Daly, Television Host
It wasn't funny when a Saturday Night Live sketch began with a cast member saying, "Hello, I'm Carson Daly, and I'm a massive tool" -- mainly because it's easy to imagine Daly gladly stepping in to deliver the same line. It's one thing to be cagey and self-deprecating; it's another to embrace your complete vapidity. On his NBC late-nighter, the happy host cringes whenever an interview or musical performance verges on an interesting moment. Daly must be sincere, too, or else he would have learned something from Jenny McCarthy's career path.
39 Jeff Koons, Artist
The "most talked-about artist in the world" is indeed a person whose career and work raise many important questions. We just don't think they're the same questions the art world is tossing about, i.e. Is this stockbroker and playboy-turned-pop-artist an ingenious media manipulator, or is he a talentless fraud? Is he a living ironic indictment of mass culture, or a "utopian, even religious" artist and the successor to Warhol? Is it art to make a giant ceramic figure entitled Michael Jackson and Bubbles? Certainly these questions are worthy in their own right, but the real question that interests us: Why doesn't someone just hit this egomaniacal abortion on the forehead with a hammer and end the discussion once and for all?
38 Mark Scharfman, Landlord
You must pay the rent. But I can't pay the rent! But you must pay the rent. But I can't pay the rent! And you -- you're going to have to have to spend half an hour dragging your elderly ass up four flights of stairs if you want to sleep in your rent-controlled apartment tonight, 'cause I ain't fixing the elevator… The Oil Can Harry of modern-day New York and its prototypical heartless landlord, Scharfman's name appears in the papers in Dickensian tales of tenant abuse with numbing regularity. Once had to be ordered by a judge to replace a window axed in by firemen in the apartment of a mentally ill tenant who had also been left with no toilet or tub for a month.
37 Fisher Stevens/Ethan Hawke, Actors
On their own, both Stevens and Hawke qualify as loathsome New Yorkers. Stevens' fragile ego and humorless manner are considered laughable even by the standards of his fellow actors, and Hawke, of course, is a master of empty intellectualism as both an author and director. (Though we admit he deserved that Oscar nod for 21 Jump Street: The Movie... Um, we mean Training Day.) Together, the ethos of Stevens & Hawke best sums up the face of the Naked Angels Theater Company, where parties always seem to take precedent over productions.
36 That Guy in the Huge Calvin Ad at Houston and Broadway, Pretty Boy
He's four-hundred-feet tall, he's got flowing blond locks, he's shirtless, his pubes are showing and you can almost hear him saying: "Yeah, and what are you going to do about it, bitch?" Life in this city is difficult enough without having to navigate a path to work every morning through a forest of giant, pouting supermodels.
35 Jason Sehorn, Athlete
The underperforming underwear model with declining skills is soon to be an ex-New Yorker, having been cut by the Giants few weeks back. Sehorn was the poster child for the phenomenon of overpaid athletes who want all the idiotic trimmings of sports celebrity without having to do the very occasional "hard" part -- in his case, providing run support on 2nd and 6. While more than happy to let Michael Strahan and Kenny Holmes do the dirty work up front, Sehorn never missed a chance to be in a shirtless workout video, ring the starting bell at the Nasdaq or show off his coif while bopping around town with his hideous non-actress wife, Law & Order catastrophe Angie Harmon. The cornerback position apparently being insufficiently glorious, he once begged for a job returning kicks in pre-season and immediately ripped up his knee, dooming his team's defense for the season.
34 Tina Brown, Former Editor
The shrill Brit with the jiggly arms who systematically massacred the reputations of two of America's most storied print institutions finally exploded in spectacular public failure when her expensive, criminally shallow Talk venture went under. The vicious, celebrity-devouring readership that she'd nurtured in her Conde Nast years openly rejoiced in her delicious misfortune, leading her to complain that she'd been "swimming in a howling sea of schadenfreude." (A line, incidentally, stolen from Courtney Love in the pages of her own magazine.) It was a perfect moment of poetic justice, until she got that talk show deal on CNBC, the debut of which has been delayed due to war. That's what it's good for.
33 Baird Jones, Nightlife Figure
After working the 80s daytime talk-show circuit proudly claiming to be a virgin, the tireless party promoter found his true niche by hooking up with cadaverous celebrities to promote their blown-brain artwork in several different clubs. As reward, Jones is now the art curator for the nightlife theme park Webster Hall, which conveniently allows for decrepit has-beens to still see their daffy thoughts noted in New York's gossip columns. Having seen his pick-up skills in action, we're still willing to believe that Jones is a virgin.
32 Brian Williams, Anchorman
At least Tom Brokaw was able to ejaculate up a handsome revisionist coffee table paean like The Greatest Generation. His soon-to-be replacement at NBC Nightly News, however, can't even draw inside the lines. Brings the nobody-home news anchor to the country's oldest network and lowers the bar to the ankles for the upcoming Dumbest Generation. On the Conan O'Brien Show, ended a long story about buying a Christmas tree with a punch-line in which he was mistaken for a member of the working class. Imagine, Brian Williams, a member of the working class. If only he knew.
31 Sam Waksal, Criminal
You might have seen him in such smash hits as Bram Stoker's ImClone!, Bird on a Wire Fraud and My Favorite Rothko. He's Sam Waksal -- miserable, wraithlike ex-CEO by day, swinging socialite entertainer of actors and celebrities by night. Exposed a while back for dumping thousands of shares of ImClone stock ahead of an FDA decision to reject its cancer drug Erbitux, Waksal was also a close, personal friend of Martha Stewart's (see below). That alone is reason enough to put him on this list. (Are you listening, Charlotte Beers?) Just another bloodless monster whose greed helped to sabotage the national economy in return for the miserable, fleeting privilege of a spot on the A list.
30 Martha Stewart, Entrepreneur
She was the arch-priestess of the vast, middle-American church that promised a medicated afterlife in Connecticut where there's no dirt, no dark people, and you have all the chenille Easter baskets, bead-encrusted butterfly cutters and $88 wire trees you can carry. That she subsequently came under investigation for insider trading made all the sense in the world: Share-dumping is the kind of crime that doesn't leave a mess in the living room. In fact, you can't even see it -- it's the other people "out there" who lose their savings and suffer broken homes and marriages while you get to keep your kitchen nice and tidy for the next batch of robiola and truffle pizza.
29 Jack Grubman, Financial Analyst
Winner of the "Most likely to cause angry mobs to run through Wall St. with pitchforks" award. Once a star stock analyst who made $20 million a year boosting doomed tech stocks (while companies were on the very brink of filing for bankruptcy), Grubman brought New York City to Caligulan levels of depravity when he agreed to boost his rating for AT&T stock in exchange for Citigroup chief Sandy Weill's help in getting Grubman's twin children into the prestigious 92nd Street Y preschool.

28 Griffin Dunne, Actor

There's a reason that he's typecast as a self-absorbed yuppie. Dunne exudes an oiliness that gives us the creeps every time we pass him in Soho. He may be indistinctive as an actor and director, but Dunne is excruciatingly real as a smug and self-absorbed creative type happily strolling through his city. The smarter ladies have learned to keep their distance when the guy's on the prowl; if only Dunne could capture that kind of intensity on film.
27 John Negroponte, U.S. Representative to the U.N.
The latest incarnation of this unkillable Friday the 13th-style right-wing monster haunts the Camp Crystal Lake of our own U.N. building, the putative victims being the ambassadors of dissenting Security Council nations. America's current ambassador to the U.N. was a high-ranking aide in the Nixon administration during the Watergate years, served as the U.S. Ambassador to Honduras during the era of alleged CIA-backed atrocities in the 80s and was a key figure in the Iran-Contra scandal. The longtime doer of the GOP's dirty work, he now leads the U.S. war charge in the Security Council.
26 Rick Moody, Author, Grant Applicant
The grotesquely pretentious author of The Ice Storm was once the guest of honor at a launch party thrown by Details magazine in an Armani shop where visitors were encouraged to shop, and drinks were restricted to red-tinted cocktails in martini glasses. Makes a tidy living writing pithily about suburban despair, and has accepted Guggenheim and NEA grants so that he might continue this great work. This, despite having sufficient filial and Hollywood money to support a dozen working writers for a dozen years. When asked why he sometimes writes novels in which the action takes place in one day, answered: "This is intended to adhere to Aristotelian unity, where place and time exist without deviating from the dramatic unity so the reader has nowhere to escape."
25 David Rabin, President, New York Nightlife Association
This flat-assed, part-owner of high-end sleaze joint Lotus supports the Giuliani-resuscitated cabaret laws that are further destroying the city's nightlife. Wears a long black-leather trench coat and has gotten competing clubs shut down by tattling on them for daring to host fun on the premises. Wouldn't know how to wave his hands in the air if you pulled a gun on him.
24 Patti Smith, Musician, Poet
The punk oral history Please Kill Me exposed her as a careerist. Her post-70s recorded output qualifies her as a tired hack. But for a recent reminder of the original rock 'n' roll nigger's uselessness, check out this quote from MOJO about why Patti included a new spoken-word piece on 2002's Land career comp: "Things, instead of getting better, are escalating since September 11." And yet, to the downtown bard's surprise, her poem has been heard and war wages on.
23 Harvey Weinstein, Producer
A boorish film-industry mixture of Al Goldstein, Laurent Kabila and Adolf Hitler, the space-devouring Miramax creature has earned a reputation from Paris to the Punjab as perhaps the worst-behaved party guest in the history of the human race. The imposing 250-pound hulk of feverishly sweating dealmaker has a well-documented history of publicly confronting tiny female antagonists (screaming and thrusting a finger at Universal chairman Stacey Snider, tossing a handful of torn-up audience questionnaires at the feet of director Julie Taymor) and brittle literary figures like Graydon Carter. A new Miramax project called Jersey Girl -- wedding the overrated Kevin Smith and revolting star couple Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck -- says everything about where he has taken the indie film movement that he once got so much credit for building up.
22 Bernard Kerik, Former NYPD Top Dog
As Rudy Giuliani's last police commissioner, decided not to fire the four cops involved in the Amadou Diallo incident, reminding New York that you have to shoot an unarmed black man at least fifty times before you lose your badge. Prior to his distinguished reign as the police commissioner, was the head of a state corrections department that for years was the city's most dependable source of scandal and bureaucratic skullduggery. The promotional blurb for his memoir, The Lost Son: A Life in Pursuit of Justice, describes him as "a jail warden with a black belt and a background in international security and anti-terrorism." His gigantic, circa-1977 mustache almost redeems him, but not quite.
21 Edgar Bronfman, Jr,.Media Mogul
The Vivendi honcho was a driving force behind the merge-at-all-costs insanity within the entertainment industry -- whereby smaller labels are absorbed and all but the few ripe moneymaking acts are dismissed. The survivors are then put to work in a chain gang of cross-marketing schemes. Fought valiantly against Napster in order to keep the world safe and profitable for the likes of Bon Jovi, Vince Gill and Mary J. Blige. Despite this, and despite the horrifying fact that Celine Dion once recorded music he wrote, it seems like nearly half of Manhattan is named after him. Was too rich to bother with college, and went straight into mismanaging the billion-dollar family business.
20 Annie Leibovitz, Celebrity Photographer
By all accounts insufferable and lacking in a single interesting photograph taken since the Koch administration. Leibovitz began as the vessel of celebrity vanity, and she proves that one can catch some serious diseases after years of that kind of contact. Specifically, you might catch nannius interruptus, wherein -- as the folks at Page Six would have it -- you leave your longtime lover after you have a baby and a cute younger gal to care for it. No wonder Susan Sontag's a democrat. This wouldn't happen at government daycare camps. But even beyond those nasty rumors, Leibovitz is a douchebag diva with an entourage bigger than the celebrities she photographs.
19 Peter Vecsey, Sportswriter
The proverbial one bad apple that causes jocks -- and a lot of other people -- to hate all sportswriters. Pontificates about athlete behavior and front-office management as though discussing grave issues of national nuclear policy, and is capable of complaining, in total seriousness, that three-time NBA champion Shaquille O'Neal "dogs" it on the court, as though Vecsey himself could score in the low post against a blind girl on a tricycle. Kudos to Charles Barkley, who said of Vecsey: "I can always lose weight, but he'll always be ugly."
18 Anthony Placido, Narc
As the Special Agent in Charge of the DEA's New York office, Placido is the top narc in town. There are 20,000 drug offenders in New York prisons and jails, and not nearly enough of them are coked-up Wall St. dickheads who spent the last ten years destroying the American economy. The drug war is about one thing: finding darkies to patronize our jails and keep law enforcement budgets high for people like Placido.
17 Bob Kerrey, President, New School
When the bug-eyed former senator and current New School prez got word that the New York Times was about to publish an article asserting his involvement in a massacre of Vietnamese civilians in 1969, he came forward a few days ahead of time to give his own version of the story -- and was immediately applauded for his courage in facing up to his "painful" past despite the fact that 1) he'd sat on the story for 32 years and 2) the real pain was on the other side of the machine gun. Kerrey is the face of that bloated, self-centered, delusional America that somehow still manages to see itself as the victim in Vietnam -- as though its pseudo-literary "loss of innocence" and, in this case, ruined political prospects, somehow compare to two million actual dead people and a mine-strewn countryside of ravaged moonscapes.
16 Woody Allen, Filmmaker
Forget about the Soon-Yi business and all the talk about his private perversions. The real problem with Woody Allen is that he hasn't been in the same area code as funny since Love and Death. That, and he's become a sickening, unrepentant elitist whose movies are one gigantic exercise in bourgeois team-building in which the ultimate message is to stay away from Tim Roth's heavily accented underclass character in Everyone Says I Love You. Just once, we'd like to see a flying, sweat-covered Michael Doleac land -- to destructive effect -- on his and Soon-Yi's laps at the Garden.
15 George Steinbrenner, Owner, New York Yankees
Winner of the lifetime achievement award for loathsomeness. You somehow imagine the Boss sitting on the floor in a big playpen with rainbow wall-to-wall carpeting, giant Muppets everywhere, a fancy electric train circling him… And he's looking through a telescope out the window to see if Jeff Weaver's hair is sticking out the back of his cap. Has forever linked the Yankee name to his infantile persecution complexes, and the fact that he wins makes it worse, not better. The euphoria of every Yankees victory lasts only until he makes his way down to the field.
14 Larry Silverstein, Real Estate Developer
It's unfortunate that any Silverstein purchased the World Trade Center lease from the Port Authority on July 24, 2001, because it provided fuel for the goons who could then claim that Jewish groups engineered the Sept. 11 attacks. It's even more unfortunate that the buyer was Larry Silverstein. The mogul quickly pursued a $7.1 billion claim on his $3.2 billion purchase, treating the attacks as two separate incidents. We're all in favor of a businessman being protected against his losses, including future profits, but with a 99-year lease on the property, Silverstein made it clear that he felt more greed than grief in the wake of tragedy.
13 Leona Helmsley, World's Highest-Paid Female Impersonator
Sports the face of Jimmy Cagney on the body of Mayor McCheese and lugs around the personality of George Wallace. The only good thing about Leona Helmsley is that she's so mean, stupid and ugly that you honestly can't even envy her riches. While in the process of losing her recent $40 million gay-bias lawsuit, she touchingly complained to the New York Post that she felt lonely without her yippy little dog, Trouble.
12 Gregg Singer, Real Estate Developer
Bought the East Village building that had housed the CHARAS/El Bohio Community & Cultural Center for over 20 years, and then immediately began clearing house with concern for neither the neighborhood's needs nor wishes. The city sold the building on E. 9th St. was sold to Singer at auction in 1998, and though Singer claims to have renovation on his mind, the fact that he evicted the community group two days after Christmas in 2001 suggests otherwise. The only people who were ever willing to even talk to him were the evictees trying to restore the community center, and he refused to speak to them. Runner-up for the coveted Readers' Poll award of Most Loathsome New Yorker. He lost the crown by a narrow margin to Sheldon Silver, who snagged #6 on our list.
11 Henry Kissinger, Political Consultant
It would be one thing to allow this scheming, paranoid, old thug to live out his last days in merciful comfort -- two hours of fresh air every day, unlimited access to the prison library, accordion lessons -- but New York still treats Henry Kissinger like royalty, regularly soliciting his opinions in the New York Times (whose reporters he once ordered wiretapped), breaking down his door with lucrative offers for consulting work and breathlessly reviewing his delusional memoirs. Only diminished relevance keeps him from the top 10.
10 William Safire, Columnist/Wordsmith
If Ann Coulter is today's Gina Lollobrigida, then this antediluvian ex-Nixon creature is our E.B. White. At an age when he should be concentrating on keeping his hospital johnny tied and making sure the pancreatic cancer patient on the other side of the room doesn't steal his Jell-O, Safire is somehow still privy to space in the world's most influential newspaper to vent his paranoid ravings about world events. It's a disturbing tribute to his staying power that modern monsters of video like Bill O'Reilly and Michael Savage have not yet caught up to him in the area of untrammeled viciousness.
9 Cocaine, Drug
Blow comes in and out of fashion on a cycle that only New York magazine editors seem to understand. We've nothing against drugs, but the default powder of stockbrokers and dickwads is a pussy's opt, a boring drug for recreational badasses. Respectable drugs make you feel good about the good parts of life -- or at least help you forget the bad parts for a spell. Coke pumps you with false bravado and fake, short-lived fun. And though there's nothing more satisfying than beating the shit out of an arrogant cokehead who thought himself invincible, we'd just as soon see New York City realize its destiny as a speed town.
8 Chris Komisarjevsky, P.R. Man
The CEO of Burson-Marsteller, one of the planet's largest public relations firms, has represented dictatorships on every continent that has one. Burson-Marsteller was the "image handler" for Dow Chemical after the Bhopal disaster that killed thousands, so when the Exxon Valdez crashed, the company knew which rolodex card to flip to. His firm is also behind most industry-funded antigreen campaigns: They shill for Big Oil in casting doubt on the science of global warming and intimidate newspapers into not covering local environmental issues when they affect BM clients (the firm has an affinity for logging companies). BM was instrumental in defeating Clinton's proposed BTU tax on fossil fuels, and is currently crafting the message of trade groups trying to weaken clean-air laws. Cementing his spot in the top ten, Komisarjevsky and his wife penned a parenting book called "Peanut Butter and Jelly Management" on how to raise fiscally responsible children.
7 Candace Bushnell, Writer
The diamond-studded fist behind the cocktail party-based mutation of the women's lib movement is attached to the arm of Manhattan's Connecticut-reared, middle-aged party princess. It would almost be worth supporting a putsch by the religious right just to watch the superhumanly self-absorbed originator of Sex and the City grow even more skeletal behind bars, deprived forever of gossip, make-up, dildos, credit cards, invites and access to both literary agents and writing materials. This party-hopping ammo belt of valley girl exclamations once described everyone who knows her as "the people who matter." Doesn't talk; shrieks.
6 Sheldon Silver, Politician/Lawyer
Winner of the Readers' Poll
The speaker of the New York State Assembly is also one of the most despicable lawyers in the city. Works about five months a year in Albany doing his best to block campaign finance reform, then spends the rest of the year using his political appointment to line his pockets with taxpayer money. One of the biggest ambulance chasers in the state, his law firm has the audacity to charge New York -- aka, all of us -- thousands of dollars an hour for legal services.
5 Jonathan Safran Foer, One-Hit Wonder
Joyce Carol Oates invented this Jewish mother's wet dream in a Princeton laboratory, and now we have to live in a world where eager-to-please frauds like Foer receive unearned comparisons to geniuses like Burgess and Joyce. Continuing a disturbing recent literary trend, his overhyped, cutesy first novel, Everything Is Illuminated, features a fictional protagonist whose name is Jonathan Safran Foer. Incidentally, most of us get along just fine with a mere two names, dick.
4 Ann Coulter, Pundit
Yes, she does live here. What a depressing age we live in, when a horse-faced Tri-Delt who spends her days hurling genocidal threats at foreigners and liberals -- whose best come-hither look promises jackboots, pepper gas and the switch -- can somehow be considered a sex symbol. What's next? Vlad the Impaler Beanie Babies? A children's show called Joseph McCarthy's Neighborhood? Please, before it's too late, bring back Charlene Tilton, and send this pampered, vicious bitch back to the stenographic pool where she belongs.
3 Michael Moore, Filmmaker/Activist
Slagging on this pandering blowhard is nothing new -- especially not in these pages -- but he makes it so easy. In the despicable Bowling for Columbine, the lumbering behemoth makes fun of working-class whites in order to make over-educated whites feel better about themselves. His arguments for gun control are simplistic, weak and mired in the cloying stink of self-service, which smells suspiciously like a fat man's crack. Every time Moore comes out in support of a liberal band or politician or fellow celebrity -- as he proved last Sunday night -- the hardworking, intelligent and reasoned left is degraded by association. It's time for activists to jettison the ballast that is Michael Moore and start repairing the damage.
2 Ted Rall, Freedom Fighter/Cartoonist
Maybe Ted first captured your heart with his blocky cartoon scamps that appear in every lazy, predictable alt-weekly in the country. Maybe you were inspired by his impassioned and daring campaigns against such scourges as internet spam and student loans. (What's next, Ted? Barking dogs? Rainy days?) Maybe you've already slept with him, since to hear him tell it, Ted's cock is a diamond-hard, unrelenting pussy magnet. Or, quite possibly you're one of us -- those who've suffered through enough of Ted Rall's comics and editorials and television and radio appearances to know that he's just another self-righteous shitheel who coasts on self-created controversy and tells himself that any publicity is good publicity. Much like Loathsome New Yorker #3, Michael Moore, Ted Rall's attempts at political commentary and liberal activism do more harm to the cause than any amount of conservative clampdown. For someone who describes himself as a "First Amendment purist," he sure does spend a lot of time telling other people what to say, and we've had enough.
1 Keith Blanchard, Editor, Maxim
The smarmy doughboy of the lad mags is still under the illusion that Maxim is the first tits and gadgets magazine ever. Honestly thinks his glossy is a populist organ of substance and not a sheep-herding, post-frat social crutch for drooling, entry-level, corporate cogs. Once disparaged lengthy articles as "rants" aimed at "cranky retirees" and claims his monthly catalogue is the brave, new face of journalism. If so, then journalism exists to give cubicle dudes whack-off material for when their web use is being monitored. No doubt all the interns blew the boss for his debut novel, the borderline-illiterate Maxim epic The Deed, but for everyone else it just cemented his rep as a grade-A asshole.
Keith: You already know that you're a no-talent hack. Now, you're officially the most loathsome New Yorker. And to think, you only work here! Congratulations.