Bill Honig likes to tell one story, perhaps apocyphal, of the somewhat unorthodox settings for discussions about ‘Ramparts’ magazine’s finances. This particular time, he imagined that he felt some unmistakable pressure on him to consider perhaps putting in some more money. It was on a day that he made a routine visit to Dr. Feigen's medical office.
The proctologist and the ad man were both members of ‘Ramparts’ board of directors, and the small talk turned to money. As Bill tells the story, he was flat on an examination table with a cold sigmoidoscope up his rear end when Feigen emphasized just what dire shape the magazine was in—the boys really needed more money, and imagine, everything would be all right if somebody just invested another $100,000 in ‘Ramparts’ right now. (Ouch!).
Next in line was Frederick Mitchell, a young (then 31) graduate student in ancient Aztec civilizations at Berkeley. Mitchell had been calling ‘Ramparts’ for months, leaving messages that he wanted to talk to someone about investing in the magazine. No one ever called him back. I kept crumpling up his phone messages and throwing them in the dust bin. Anyone who would call up ‘Ramparts’ and volunteer money could only be a crank, or worse. It was only in a moment of the most abject financial despair that Joe Ippolito and I decided to drive to Berkeley to visit the nuisance caller. I always knew when things were particularly bad because Joe would tell my wife, Denise, when she invariably asked how things were going, “Better not put any meat in the spaghetti sauce this week.”
Mitchell lived in a huge-timbered Willis Polk-type house in the Berkeley hills. We got lost on the way, and stopped for a drink, and didn't ring Mitchell's doorbell until after 11 P.M.
“Oh, I thought you weren't coming,” Mitchell said, inviting us in. Mitchell was tall, with the demeanor of an altar boy and a slightly fey sense about him. I gave him the latest issue of ‘Ramparts,’ which seemed to impress him mightily. I told him it was hot off the presses, which it was, but neglected to add that we had just bounced a $17,000 check to the printer to pay for it. We talked about the magazine for a while, and then Mitchell said, “I’ve always wanted to invest in a magazine. Do you think it would be all right if I invested a hundred thousand?”
“Well that's a nice round sum, Fred,” Joe said.
Joe spent the next hour giving Mitchell a financial version of the Miranda warning. The magazine was in very bad shape, and he might lose his money. “Oh, I expected something like that,” Mitchell said.
We got back to my house in San Francisco late that evening. Denise asked what had happened in Berkeley. “You can put the meat back in the spaghetti sauce,” Joe told her.
Before we could issue stock to Mitchell for his money the California Corporations Commissioner made him sign a somewhat embarrassing paper stating that he had full knowledge of ‘Ramparts’ financial condition and prospects but notwithstanding, he was over 21 and going to invest the money, anyway.
Said Mitchell, reaching for his pen, “The only thing that’s missing from this is the phrase ‘of sound mind and body’.”
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