When I was a freshman at UCLA, David Carey was a senior. We were in the same fraternity and knew each other, but we weren’t friends, as we couldn’t have been more different. David was in a serious relationship with a girl named Laurie and was the publisher of our school newspaper, the Daily Bruin. He wore big glasses and looked forty. I was too immature to be in a relationship, had a ponytail, smoked a lot of pot, and rowed crew. Thirty years later, David is married to Laurie, oversees Hearst’s magazine business, has big glasses, and looks forty. I still smoke pot, but I am an entirely different person. David has changed less than any person I’ve ever known, in a good way.
In my twenties, I knew of David’s professional progress, as conversation among friends from college inevitably turns to “Who’s killing it?” David was always on that list. He was one of the youngest publishers in the business (SmartMoney—remember them?). David then landed big jobs at Condé Nast, including publisher of The New Yorker, while still in his thirties. David would regularly reach out and invite me to have lunch with him at Condé Nast, where we’d venture to the Frank Gehry–designed cafeteria and eat sushi among impossibly stylish young people whose parents were putting them through fashion. Anna Wintour would be in the corner booth with S. I. Newhouse Jr. At the time I was starting tech firms in San Francisco and was surrounded by people who lit up a room by leaving it. But I’d come to New York, where we’d have lunch next to the Prada-wearing devil. It felt more than relevant; it felt fabulous. In exchange, when my VCs would start harping about building a brand, I’d overpay for pages in The New Yorker and InStyle. One day, while eating in that cafeteria, I decided to move to New York.
After David’s stint at Condé Nast, he’d invite me to lunch on the fifty-fifth floor of Hearst Tower in a private dining room for two, where a suited waiter would bring us some puff pastry the company was known for. By this time, I was teaching at NYU and had nothing to offer David professionally. But I’d become a friend, and David lived by a code that included reaching out to friends on a regular basis. We now have almost no professional overlap. I wrote an article for Esquire (his idea), but we don’t work together.19 Despite this, we’ve become closer. Mostly due to a common shared blessing we didn’t recognize at eighteen or twenty-two, but one that has gained purchase in our minds as we’ve aged. Both of us came from middle-class families in Los Angeles. The generosity of California taxpayers and the vision of the Regents of the University of California lifted us up and gave us a shot at relevance and rewarding lives.
In 2018, David announced he was stepping down from his position as president of Hearst Magazines. At our most recent lunch, he shared his plans to step down. It didn’t make any sense to me, as David is still relatively young, and well thought of at Hearst—a great firm that’s good to its people. I suggested he stay, as he was “rounding third” and should enjoy the seat for a few more years. For the first time, I sensed unchecked emotion from David (he’s a rock). He replied, “I want to help young people, and I’m sick of firing my friends.”
It’s easy to be admirable when you’re an executive in a sector growing 50 percent a year. To leave the print industry with friends and reputation intact is to win the Boston Marathon sporting a 104-degree fever.
David is a role model for me. Not because of his professional success; I know a lot of very successful people. But because David never lost the script … as I and many, or most, ambitious people have at some point in our lives. Professional success is the means, not the end. The end is economic security for your family and, more important, meaningful relationships with family and friends. David has been married to Laurie for over three decades, has four impressive adult children who are always around (always) and clearly adore their father. He has friends who admire him and feel admired by him.
We ended up in similar places professionally (I’m being generous to me). My ascent was fueled by the University of California, hard work, and a tolerance for risk. David’s rise was a function of the University of California, hard work, and character.