is dead and buried. But it died with its sunglasses on and the radio playing. Services were held at the new NYC club, Citrine - the magazine went out in one final Southern
The death was the result of a high-impact collision. The economy is an American tragedy, much like Elvis popping one too many handfuls of pills and dying, bloated, on
his throne, or James Dean taking a hairpin turn much too fast. New York is littered with the twisted debris. But when they pulled Radar
from the wreck it still had on its shades.
After AMI, owner of the Star
and the National Enquirer
, bought Radaronline and gutted it, all that's left is a zombie corpse staggering down the highway, muttering nonsense about
Paris Hilton. And, just as when people will say, "Oh, that's not him," after they believe they've caught a glimpse of Elvis in a Dairy Queen somewhere, they may think they've seen Radar, but it won't
be the real thing.
Citrine filled up early for what photo director Greg Garry had predicted "promises to be the most-attended, media-heavy funeral since Jackie-O kicked the bucket." The
party was meant to be Radar
's Halloween bash; even after Radar
folded last week, an event was never in doubt. Never one to miss a good shindig, Radar
rechristened the bash
." Besides the last cover girl, Shannen Doherty, just about anyone who ever had anything to do with the magazine paid their final respects. Sure, Radar has been reanimated before,
but this third blow feels like the end. NYC even provided a crew pouring blacktop just steps from the red carpet, providing a physical grave for the carcass. As workmen smoothed the asphalt over,
steam filled the cold air and those waiting by the velvet rope covered their faces with scarves in reaction to the acrid smell.
The truck pulled away and some of the editors posed along
with founder and editor-in-chief Maer Roshan. They appeared variously shell-shocked, delirious, punch drunk (or actually drunk) and glum. Often all at once.
At the Radar
the previous Friday, after the plug was pulled and as staffers emptied their desks, someone had wiped away some of the plans for the future on a dry-erase board hanging on the wall (the next issue was
a week away from printing, according to Roshan). Scrawled in the now-empty space was, "Radar
RIP. We love you. (Don't ever change.)"