Richard Paul Bayan (that’s me) was born and raised in New Brunswick, New Jersey, the older of two sons of Armenian immigrants from Istanbul. My idyllic (and idealistic) middle-class childhood, set amid tree-shaded lawns during the Eisenhower and Kennedy years, proved to be the perfect set-up for a lifetime of cynical disillusionment.
I acquired a solid education at the local public schools, served as managing editor of my high school newspaper and graduated with honors from Rutgers College, where I majored in history — mostly ancient and medieval, with an obligatory whiff of early modern. Finding myself virtually unemployable, I picked up a master’s in journalism at the University of Illinois. There I discovered and was permanently influenced by the works of that brilliant early twentieth century curmudgeon, the American journalist H. L. Mencken.
In my mid-twenties I labored as a seriously underpaid associate editor of trade magazines with titles like Rubber Age and Container News. When I finally landed a coveted job as staff writer for Time-Life Books, I was assigned to the Plumbing volume in the company’s top-selling Home Repair & Improvement series. (My first assignment: how to install a new toilet.) Within three months the book division relocated to the Confederacy and left me behind. I was told that my descriptions of toilet repairs and pipe-thawing techniques didn’t quite capture the distinctive company voice.
It was during this dismal phase of my career that I first broke into print with a pair of essays on the plight of the liberal arts graduate, both of which appeared in National Review. These essays won me an unpaid post as associate editor of The New American Review, a recently hatched cultural magazine with a circulation that eventually peaked at about 680 – roughly two-thirds of whom were Roman Catholic priests.
Eventually I felt compelled to start earning a grown-up salary. After surviving seven years as chief copywriter at Barron’s Educational Series, where the annual turnover rate sometimes topped 100 percent, I was named advertising copy chief at Day-Timers, the original personal organizer company. My work there won six advertising awards in nine competitions. I also became one of the world’s foremost authorities on daily planner page formats and supple leather binders. In 1999, after 14 years at Day-Timers, I finally called it quits and leaped into the challenging world of freelance writing and consulting.
Three years earlier I had launched The Cynic’s Sanctuary (www.i-cynic.com), where I dutifully crafted 70 monthly tirades until my sense of humor gave out in December 2002. (The site still thrives, I’m happy to report.) For two years (2000-02) I also wrote a weekly column, “Some Cynical Guy,” for Upbeat Online.
Today I’m the author of four books: Words That Sell (1984; revised 2006) and its sequel, More Words That Sell (2003), a pair of popular reference books for people who write advertising; The Best in Medical Advertising and Graphics (1989), a lavish collection of prizewinning examples, complete with my effulgent commentaries; and The Cynic’s Dictionary (1994), an acerbic modern equivalent of The Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce.
In March 2007 I launched my first blog, The New Moderate (newmoderate.blogspot.com). I envisioned that site as a lively centrist alternative to the left-wing and right-wing punditry that currently dominates public discourse. Though entertainingly and insightfully written, it garners barely enough notice to keep it listed on Technorati.com. I attribute this embarrassment to the essentially apathetic, apolitical and probably asexual nature of the average American moderate. No wonder the lefties and righties get all the press.
For the past four years (during which time I’ve changed agents twice and sprouted numerous new gray hairs beneath the dye), I’ve been struggling to find a legitimate publisher for my darkly humorous essays. Unfortunately, I’m not a celebrity or an Alaskan governor, so the prospects seem pretty dim for now. But I still hold out the hope that my work will eventually reach a larger audience, preferably before my untimely death.
I currently live with my five-year-old son in a quaint 110-year-old former livery stable in Philadelphia. Since my wife left me last year, I’ve been able to hang pictures wherever I like and enjoy eating peanut butter straight from the jar once again. I’ve also lost half my nest egg in the current financial meltdown. But at least I still have all my original body parts. And I love my son. Things could be worse.
