At 73 Hef is dating college-age twins (Sandy and Mandy) as well as another young woman (Brande) and a fourth (whose name doesn't rhyme). He starts telling us about how the twins had never been to Disneyland, then goes off on a tangent about staying in touch with the passions of youth. And for a minute — even though this is Hugh Hefner sitting here in pajama bottoms and we're surrounded by nude portraits of his estranged wife and even though we were just talking about the great group-sex parties of the '70s and the man had stopped for a second to clarify that he was “not an eccentric” and then had laughed weirdly — he seems to be channeling the spirit of Walt Disney. Quietly he asks, “What kinds of dreams did you have when you were a kid, and what's the grown-up version of that?”
This is a message of a half century of sexual wisdom. And it is oddly comforting and mesmerizing. He nearly whispers, “Hold on to your dreams and don't be confused by what everybody else tells you you ought to be doing.” There is a cuckooing of exotic birds outside, and you can almost hear Jiminy Cricket piping up: If your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme.
"The Road To Boobville" by Adam Sachs, GQ, December 1999. My thoughts on Hef are here. Ebert, on the other hand, is a little more smitten.
Showing posts with label magazines. Show all posts
Showing posts with label magazines. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
1976 by Lorrie Moore
In 1976 the media culture, newly experimenting with public talking cures, helped foster a more interesting kind of self-pity (farewell to Nixon's antique and unconvincing “I'm not a crook”). In 1976 we had Betty Ford, the outgoing First Lady who later would confess to substance abuse. And we had a new president who would confess to lust — at a time when this was unprecedented and not yet required by the attorney general's office.
Indeed, Jimmy Carter's 1976 grassroots presidential campaign brought us something new, and not just double-digit inflation and soaring interest rates. A president so deeply well intentioned — a president in denim — was something this country had never seen before. For Jimmy Carter, the denim may have been a statement, but it wasn't yet a cynical costume. For that we needed Reagan. Then Bush, then Lamar Alexander. For Bill Clinton, apparently, clothing itself was a cynical costume.
Lorrie Moore, on her favorite year, for GQ, December 1999.
Indeed, Jimmy Carter's 1976 grassroots presidential campaign brought us something new, and not just double-digit inflation and soaring interest rates. A president so deeply well intentioned — a president in denim — was something this country had never seen before. For Jimmy Carter, the denim may have been a statement, but it wasn't yet a cynical costume. For that we needed Reagan. Then Bush, then Lamar Alexander. For Bill Clinton, apparently, clothing itself was a cynical costume.
Lorrie Moore, on her favorite year, for GQ, December 1999.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Tom Carson on Lee Marvin
Lee Marvin is alarmingly at home in The Dirty Dozen. He almost makes its cynical point of view look respectable, not by finding it profound but simply by enjoying himself in a way that amounts to an endorsement. Facing a crop of newbies all eager to go over big — John Cassavetes and Donald Sutherland, for two — he looks as amused by the idea that they can compete with his serene underplaying as an elephant surrounded by chimps. They're all playing murderers and head cases, but to him it's a given that he's more formidably frightening, because he doesn't need to be psychotic to act this way — just to trust his superior acquaintance with how the world works. He sells the movie by finding nothing in it surprising.
"The Big One" by Tom Carson, GQ, April 2005. With fab illo by Tavis Coburn.
"The Big One" by Tom Carson, GQ, April 2005. With fab illo by Tavis Coburn.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Magazines And What's Worth Keeping
The basement purge began in earnest this August. And one of my foremost realizations while purging was, there are very very few magazines worth holding on to past the end of the month.
Not that I've had an easy time throwing them away. I've been slowly culling through the bales of print in the basement, and while 99% of what I'm looking at gets a quick flick into the Blue Box, there is still the occasional issue that returns to the (now roomier) shelf downstairs. Then there are others joining a growing pile next to the door, because they have one or two articles that still engage, or maybe even just a quote or two.
I've decided that if it's just a quote I'm keen on, I should post it up here and give the bundle of paper the old heave-ho. If the article is on-line I will link to it; otherwise, the enjoyable quote just exists as it is, in all its virtual, context-free glory. For the first example, scroll down.
Not that I've had an easy time throwing them away. I've been slowly culling through the bales of print in the basement, and while 99% of what I'm looking at gets a quick flick into the Blue Box, there is still the occasional issue that returns to the (now roomier) shelf downstairs. Then there are others joining a growing pile next to the door, because they have one or two articles that still engage, or maybe even just a quote or two.
I've decided that if it's just a quote I'm keen on, I should post it up here and give the bundle of paper the old heave-ho. If the article is on-line I will link to it; otherwise, the enjoyable quote just exists as it is, in all its virtual, context-free glory. For the first example, scroll down.
Wayne Coyne Quote
A lot of people ask me what song I wish I had written. C'mon, that's easy — “Happy Birthday.” That's a useful little song, isn't it? You start singing “Happy Birthday” and things start happening. People start smiling, they start singing along. Well, that's what rock 'n' roll is, if it's done right. It's useful. You do it right, and people generally have a pretty good time. They go to the concert, they talk to their friends, they drink beer, and hopefully they go home and have sex. That's what rock 'n' roll is about; that's what it's always been about — that's the deal. But a guy like Beck, he doesn't know that because, you know, he's Beck. He thinks it's about him. He thinks that when he's walking down the hallway before the show, the people out there are thinking about him walking down the hallway, because he's the artist. And I'm like, “Beck, I hate to break this to you, but for most of those people, you're the entertainment. They're not thinking of you. They're thinking of whether they're going to have sex tonight. So entertain them and help them have sex.” And so, at the beginning of this tour, Beck wanted the shows to be very serious. He's a serious artist, he's come out with a serious album, he wants to do a serious show. And I'm like, “Beck, what are you, Elvis Costello? People like Elvis, but secretly they think he's boring. You're Beck. You do that funny little hipster dance. People love the hipster dance. If you don't do the hipster dance, people are going to be disappointed. So do the hipster dance.” And Beck's like, “But I want these shows to be serious.” And I'm like, “Beck, I go out there and pour fake blood all over myself while singing 'Happy Birthday.' The least you can do is dance.”
Wayne Coyne of The Flaming Lips, from Have You Met The Lips? by Tom Junod, Esquire Magazine, March 2003.
Wayne Coyne of The Flaming Lips, from Have You Met The Lips? by Tom Junod, Esquire Magazine, March 2003.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Artistic Expression & Age, Plus A Little Self-Help
The first time I saw a display of Monet paintings I was surprised by my emotional response. The early-to-mid-career paintings provoked in me a peevish distaste that bordered on disgust: those hazy water lillies, the primly dressed aristocratic ladies with their sprats in tow, all glazed-over with Monet's forgiving soft-focus approach . . . feh. I stopped short, however, when I reached the haystacks. The vibrancy, the urgency of expression caught me and kept me rooted to the spot.
The haystacks were later Monet, of course, painted in moments of high fever when he seemed convinced he hadn't any time to spare on his usual finishing gimmicks in the studio.
The haystacks were later Monet, of course, painted in moments of high fever when he seemed convinced he hadn't any time to spare on his usual finishing gimmicks in the studio. Robert Cohen takes note of a similar shift in perspective in aging writers. In this essay for The Believer Cohen begins with Thomas McGuane, “a recovering 'word drunk' by his own admission — [speaking of] how the experience of his middle years, which among other things consisted of attending a great many funerals, affected not just the substance of his work but its tones and its rhythms too.
'As you get older,' he advises, 'you should get impatient with showing off in literature. It is easier to settle for blazing light than to find a language for the real. Whether you are a writer or a bird-dog trainer, life should winnow the superfluous language. The real thing should become plain. You should go straight to what you know best . . . . you want something that is drawn like a bow, and a bow is a simple instrument. A good writer should get a little bit cleaner and probably a little bit plainer as life and the oeuvre go on.'For all its plain good sense, this seems a fairly radical sentiment. Generally we secular types resist the imperative-prescriptive mode: we don’t like being told what’s real and what’s true and what we should or shouldn’t do. But McGuane’s shoulds here are instructive. He doesn’t concede for argument’s sake that such notions as truth and 'the real' may not exist, may be only quaint premodern artifacts, tarnished if not shattered after decades of rough handling by lawyers, humanities professors, and people with French surnames. No, a Westerner’s impatience with that sort of dithering and equivocal epistemological bullshit — with all bullshit — makes its own point: namely, that if experience (and for experience we might go ahead and substitute the word death) teaches us what’s real and what isn’t, then to pretend otherwise, either in substance or in aesthetic form, is an evasion, a shirking of the writer’s responsibility to truth. The rest is commentary.”
There are other directions aging writers take. Cohen's survey is fairly catholic in its content, and surprisingly moving by conclusion. You can read it here.
In fact, I found last month's issue of The Believer made for particularly satisfying reading: Andrea Richards' evocative exploration of her late, eccentric uncle's library of esoterica; Casey Walker's personal re-examination of one of William T. Vollmann's obsessive existential howls; the interview with Trent Reznor — all delivered in The Believer's signature gentle enthusiasm, and highly recommended.
Tangentially related: Chuck Pahlaniuk offers up a pertinent self-help regime here.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Lapham's Quarterly
"As for Laney, she was no sure proof of God, and her disappearance proves nothing about God, but God feels a little less present to me because she is no longer in the world. My soul feels a little more tired. Little maid, pray for me"
When Lewis Lapham announced it was time he launched a quarterly, I didn't exactly hold my breath in anticipation. I'd long been an admirer of his prosaic prowess, but by the time Bush Jr. was back in the kitchen, prepping to deliver another four years of material ripe for Lapham's eviscerations I was weary of reading it. Remember the smartest kid in your classroom? Not the one who got the best grades, but the one who could have, and chose not to? As much as I enjoyed hanging out with that kid -- a reciprocal indulgence, I'm sure -- that kid sure knew how to tire me out. Lapham was that kid.
Lapham's podium, Harper's Magazine, was in the monthly habit of persuading me of things I needed no persuasion to believe -- specifically, our collective situation is so much more dire than we think. I'm grateful when anyone of influence blows the whistle on their social tier, but when said whistle-blower is as high up the ladder as Lapham, my first monkey-thought is usually, "If I just scrabble up close to where he is, I can begin to work on the situation, too." I dropped my subscription because it was distracting me from what I needed to believe -- that I could, just possibly, attend and make small differences right now, where I already was. Now he was issuing a quarterly the size of a small phone book? I anticipated heaps of sniffy "Here's what's wrong" proclamations, and thought, No, thank you.
In fact, Lapham's Quarterly is well worth checking out. His editorial policy is surprisingly catholic in its inclusions, resulting in a collected read that gently nudges chambers of thought which might have become a little stiff over the years. I spent a couple of hours in the library, poring through past issues. When the quarterly finally devoted its contents to "Religion" I went ahead and bought it. Once again there is something for readers of every temperament and persuasion. Certainly there are pieces I can't be bothered with; there are also items I don't mind being challenged by. But the real surprise is stumbling across a piece that is actually encouraging -- in my case Garret Keizer's The Courtesy Of God. That's where the above quote comes from, and you can read the piece in its entirety here -- an invitation to which I could only say, Yes. Thank you.
When Lewis Lapham announced it was time he launched a quarterly, I didn't exactly hold my breath in anticipation. I'd long been an admirer of his prosaic prowess, but by the time Bush Jr. was back in the kitchen, prepping to deliver another four years of material ripe for Lapham's eviscerations I was weary of reading it. Remember the smartest kid in your classroom? Not the one who got the best grades, but the one who could have, and chose not to? As much as I enjoyed hanging out with that kid -- a reciprocal indulgence, I'm sure -- that kid sure knew how to tire me out. Lapham was that kid.
Lapham's podium, Harper's Magazine, was in the monthly habit of persuading me of things I needed no persuasion to believe -- specifically, our collective situation is so much more dire than we think. I'm grateful when anyone of influence blows the whistle on their social tier, but when said whistle-blower is as high up the ladder as Lapham, my first monkey-thought is usually, "If I just scrabble up close to where he is, I can begin to work on the situation, too." I dropped my subscription because it was distracting me from what I needed to believe -- that I could, just possibly, attend and make small differences right now, where I already was. Now he was issuing a quarterly the size of a small phone book? I anticipated heaps of sniffy "Here's what's wrong" proclamations, and thought, No, thank you.
In fact, Lapham's Quarterly is well worth checking out. His editorial policy is surprisingly catholic in its inclusions, resulting in a collected read that gently nudges chambers of thought which might have become a little stiff over the years. I spent a couple of hours in the library, poring through past issues. When the quarterly finally devoted its contents to "Religion" I went ahead and bought it. Once again there is something for readers of every temperament and persuasion. Certainly there are pieces I can't be bothered with; there are also items I don't mind being challenged by. But the real surprise is stumbling across a piece that is actually encouraging -- in my case Garret Keizer's The Courtesy Of God. That's where the above quote comes from, and you can read the piece in its entirety here -- an invitation to which I could only say, Yes. Thank you.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Beach Reading
Our family just spent the past week in Maine, doing very little except soaking up the sun, sand and sea in every conceivable way. I got my read on, of course, and took the occasion to purchase material I might glance at on-line, but usually ignore in "hard copy." The privations of the beach will do that to you.
Here is what made for the most compelling beach reading. Follow the links, but please peruse with the awareness that briny air and a gaggle of happy young women will prompt a normally grumpy guy-about-the-house to give greater consideration than he normally might to slight material. Strongest case in point:
“While My Guitar Gently Beeps” by Daniel Radosh, New York Times Magazine. Want to see me fall asleep on the spot? Pass me an article about the making of a video game. Want to watch me lose my temper? Make that article 12 pages long. Yet here I was, cheerfully devoting the first hour of my sunning to Radosh's account of bringing The Beatles to "Rock Band." Most people are familiar with the Rock Band platform (or “engine”): the player picks up an instrument similar to the Mickey Mouse “guitar” and tries to keep time with the song being played on the television screen. So what makes The Beatles' Rock Band different? Basically the surviving keepers of the Four Lads' legacy: Paul, Ringo, Yoko, et al — who are all VERY particular about what they sign off on. The article uncovers some surprising facets in a group I thought I'd pretty much pegged by now.
“L.A. Confidential” by Holly Brubach, NYT Style Magazine. Eve Babitz is Hollywood's “Anti-Didion”, unjustly forgotten — so claims Brubach. I'm more drawn to Didion, West, Bukowski and even Elroy (when he has to answer to an editor), but Brubach garnishes some beguiling quotes that moved me to seek out used copies of Babitz's essays (once I got home, of course).
“Bloody Good: GQ Celebrates The Greatest Movie Violence Of All Time” by various, GQ. Aleksandar Hemon digs on The Wild Bunch. Elisabeth Gilbert celebrates Die Hard. David Carradine enumerates his top five movie fights. Mark Harris sums up the importance of Straw Dogs, Dirty Harry and A Clockwork Orange. And that's just for starters. None of it is on-line, alas. But this bit on It Might Get Loud is worth a look. And even though the presence of Jack White is almost enough to dissuade me from queuing up for it, I'm starting to think the movie is probably worth a look, too.
“Beautiful People, Ugly Choices” by Leslie Bennetts, Vanity Fair. A guilty pleasure, to be sure. But it is somewhat comforting to look away from the task of raising adolescent girls and focus for a moment on a family that is wealthier, better looking, and way more messed up.
Spotted commonalities: absolutely everyone has something about Mad Men and Inglourious Basterds. Geez, Louise: with that much publicity, you tell me — which one of these is the pig in a poke?
Here is what made for the most compelling beach reading. Follow the links, but please peruse with the awareness that briny air and a gaggle of happy young women will prompt a normally grumpy guy-about-the-house to give greater consideration than he normally might to slight material. Strongest case in point:
“While My Guitar Gently Beeps” by Daniel Radosh, New York Times Magazine. Want to see me fall asleep on the spot? Pass me an article about the making of a video game. Want to watch me lose my temper? Make that article 12 pages long. Yet here I was, cheerfully devoting the first hour of my sunning to Radosh's account of bringing The Beatles to "Rock Band." Most people are familiar with the Rock Band platform (or “engine”): the player picks up an instrument similar to the Mickey Mouse “guitar” and tries to keep time with the song being played on the television screen. So what makes The Beatles' Rock Band different? Basically the surviving keepers of the Four Lads' legacy: Paul, Ringo, Yoko, et al — who are all VERY particular about what they sign off on. The article uncovers some surprising facets in a group I thought I'd pretty much pegged by now.
“L.A. Confidential” by Holly Brubach, NYT Style Magazine. Eve Babitz is Hollywood's “Anti-Didion”, unjustly forgotten — so claims Brubach. I'm more drawn to Didion, West, Bukowski and even Elroy (when he has to answer to an editor), but Brubach garnishes some beguiling quotes that moved me to seek out used copies of Babitz's essays (once I got home, of course).
“Bloody Good: GQ Celebrates The Greatest Movie Violence Of All Time” by various, GQ. Aleksandar Hemon digs on The Wild Bunch. Elisabeth Gilbert celebrates Die Hard. David Carradine enumerates his top five movie fights. Mark Harris sums up the importance of Straw Dogs, Dirty Harry and A Clockwork Orange. And that's just for starters. None of it is on-line, alas. But this bit on It Might Get Loud is worth a look. And even though the presence of Jack White is almost enough to dissuade me from queuing up for it, I'm starting to think the movie is probably worth a look, too.
“Beautiful People, Ugly Choices” by Leslie Bennetts, Vanity Fair. A guilty pleasure, to be sure. But it is somewhat comforting to look away from the task of raising adolescent girls and focus for a moment on a family that is wealthier, better looking, and way more messed up.
Spotted commonalities: absolutely everyone has something about Mad Men and Inglourious Basterds. Geez, Louise: with that much publicity, you tell me — which one of these is the pig in a poke?
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Esquire USA: Signs of a Recovery?
I've had quite a time taking shots at Esquire USA magazine since I started blogging -- my pissiest is probably this post. So it behooves me, I think, to be vocal when they're onto something.
First of all, Tom Junod redeems himself from this lamentable lapse into frivolity with this summary of What The Hell Just Happened. John H. Richardson's profile of Joe Biden is also worth reading.
And that's about it. I still think the entire editorial and writing staff should pick up a copy of Smiling Through The Apocalypse (A), head out into the Poconos and spend a weekend strategizing, "How could we do something like this today?" I'd also love to see the summer fiction issue reinstated, preferably with stories written by someone other than Stephen King. I like King's writing just fine, but I don't buy magazines for it. Regardless, the Feb/09 issue is still an improvement over the last few years.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Conversation Fodder: PASTE's "Best Of 2008"
Just in time for the US American Thanksgiving, Paste magazine delivers its Best Of 2008 issue. I believe I'll be letting my subscription lapse, but this yearly ish is worth picking up, if only to inform my heated debates with younger nephews at the extended-family dinner table.
Last year Paste proclaimed Boxer by The National to be the album of the year. Prior to that, I was too deep in retro-yearning to notice The National. I downloaded the album from eMusic, and was happy for the experience. We shall see what I make of She & Him when my downloads refresh in another week.
More anon.
Last year Paste proclaimed Boxer by The National to be the album of the year. Prior to that, I was too deep in retro-yearning to notice The National. I downloaded the album from eMusic, and was happy for the experience. We shall see what I make of She & Him when my downloads refresh in another week.
More anon.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
A Casualty of the Polysyllabic Spree
Nick Hornby announces he's concluding his column for The Believer. I expect this is very sad news for the magazine. There have been issues that held absolutely nothing that appealed to me -- except Hornby's "Stuff I've Been Reading" column. Quite a feat, that.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Dealing With San Francisco Flashbacks At The Magazine Stand
During one of my recent visits to the magazine stand, I experienced a San Francisco flashback — circa 1995, shortly before the original dot-com bubble burst.
My wife and I were enjoying an evening stroll in North Beach, having just spent the day taking the 49 Mile Scenic Drive.* We were in front of Vesuvio, sipping the requisite coffee and watching an enormous stretch limo attempting a particularly tight corner. The driver finally had to concede defeat and cautiously back up.
It realigned itself with the traffic, then came to another full stop. The passenger window rolled down, and a 20-year-old kid holding a cell-phone thrust his head out. “Hey! Hey, Derek!”
Derek was standing in a cluster of snazzily-dressed friends in front of City Lights. “Yo!”
“You going to Cassie’s later?”
“Maybe. Not sure yet. You?”
“Probably. Maybe I’ll see you.” The kid flopped back in his seat, rolled the window up and instructed his driver to carry on. The limo pulled forward, and took a more reasonable corner.
I thought of the kids who had flocked to San Francisco some 30 years earlier, then I thought again of this kid and his flashy compatriots. Such is the behavior of the nouveau riche: unintentionally amusing, if only for its pallid irony, but finally quite maddening if you allow yourself to mull it over long enough (13 years, say). The very rich are not like you or I, and neither are the newly rich — they’re more like a magazine. In this case, GQ.
The Gentleman’s Quarterly, in the tradition of most American magazines, holds out an invitation (with a serrated edge) for the consumer to join its exclusive company. The opening pages present cell phones and shaving accessories I can probably afford, then push ahead to music and movies I haven't yet had the chance to sample but are coming soon to a download service near me, before finally moving on to suits of clothing, exotic spas and scantily-dressed girls that are completely out of my reach. Leafing through the magazine I find my reaction is similar to the one I had with the dot-com kid: I might appreciate the original distraction, but I’m finally keen to get it out of my face.
I’ll take a deep breath, then go on record and just say it: from 1985 to about 1990 I used to really enjoy reading GQ. Its invitation was more appealing, and the let-down was a little gentler. My recollection of the magazine from those years is the pictures were for kids, while the words were (mostly) for grown-ups. I know I’ve moved out of, and quite likely have never been in, the target demographic, but these days the whole shebang is devoted to kids.
But it’s not just this one publication that appalls me, it’s pretty much the whole stand. Where’s a picture-lovin’ word-hungry fella to go for an afternoon’s enticement — Vanity Fair? Lessee, here: we’ve got the watches, the trousers, the Manolo and the movie stars. The encouraged consumption is all a little too conspicuous for this farm boy, but never mind. In the words department, Christopher Hitchens rhapsodizes about blow-jobs and martinis, while Stiglitz and Bilmes tear their robes over the cost of Iraq. Three trillion dollars — isn’t that the yearly retainer for Annie Leibowitz? Talk about a magazine with a split personality. What’s next: Britney Spears on the cover of The Atlantic?
Alright, time for another San Francisco memory, this one from our most recent visit. My wife and I were trudging around Pacific Heights, looking for perspectives into people’s yards. The neighborhoods are terraced with long flights of steps that are perfect for exactly that sort of voyeurism, so we climbed up one such, then parked ourselves on a bench and took in the view. Some minutes later I noticed a white-haired gentleman in a black suit at the bottom step. He was a long way down, but as he got closer I could make out other details. He was smoking a cigar, and his suit and sunglasses were almost certainly Italian. Within a few minutes I could smell his cigar, and it was quite fine. When he reached us he nodded at me, then flashed my wife a sharp smile. He opened his mouth and a gravelly Robert Loggia voice came out and said, “How aahh yah?” The man was fit, sharp, charming and alive, and for that one moment the two of us were part of his glorious conspiracy.
He went on — to his home, his lover, his job ... who knows? Could be he drove the limo we’d seen ten years earlier. Regardless, the old guy left a sensual impression that got the imagination spinning in delightful directions. Somewhat like another magazine: Chicago’s own Stop Smiling.
If you pick up the current issue, you’ll see it’s devoted almost entirely to jazz, “America’s Greatest Art Form.” Anyone who couldn’t give a toss about jazz will reject the magazine outright, and that’s a shame — not because I’m looking for jazz converts, but because any magazine, regardless of its chosen subject matter, is about delivering an appealing look and read. On this score, SS has yet to fail me: I’ve purchased issues with rap artists on the cover, and though I still make it a point to avoid the music, I’ve enjoyed the magazine.
Stop Smiling’s approach has a faint esotericism to it. Where other magazines make their point by assembling an argument and sealing off the exits, SS devotes its pages to personality profiles and interviews, inserts the occasional historic footnote, and closes with a few reviews. All of this is mercifully brief and pleasantly evocative. It makes for a perfect lunch-hour’s worth of reading because it pulls the reader in with its format, which makes the case for an alternate reality that is aesthetically rewarding without being off-puttingly “glamorous.” Like the old gent, it is superficial in the best sense of the word: it invites closer scrutiny.
For reasons I cannot fathom, SS has a scrupulous Internet searcher that rats me out every time I post their cover without permission, no matter how I laud their product. Nevertheless, here I go. This issue has three covers, one of which looks like this:
Their official site is here. Seek it out at your magazine stand today.
*San Francisco’s 49 Mile Scenic Drive is truly one of that unique city’s great innovations for its tourists. If you’re visiting San Francisco, pick up the Dorling Kindersley Eyewitness Guide and take The Drive — by car is fine, taxi is better, but motorcycle or scooter is the very best. Stretch limousines, however, are to be avoided. They just don’t work.
My wife and I were enjoying an evening stroll in North Beach, having just spent the day taking the 49 Mile Scenic Drive.* We were in front of Vesuvio, sipping the requisite coffee and watching an enormous stretch limo attempting a particularly tight corner. The driver finally had to concede defeat and cautiously back up.
It realigned itself with the traffic, then came to another full stop. The passenger window rolled down, and a 20-year-old kid holding a cell-phone thrust his head out. “Hey! Hey, Derek!”
Derek was standing in a cluster of snazzily-dressed friends in front of City Lights. “Yo!”
“You going to Cassie’s later?”
“Maybe. Not sure yet. You?”
“Probably. Maybe I’ll see you.” The kid flopped back in his seat, rolled the window up and instructed his driver to carry on. The limo pulled forward, and took a more reasonable corner.
I thought of the kids who had flocked to San Francisco some 30 years earlier, then I thought again of this kid and his flashy compatriots. Such is the behavior of the nouveau riche: unintentionally amusing, if only for its pallid irony, but finally quite maddening if you allow yourself to mull it over long enough (13 years, say). The very rich are not like you or I, and neither are the newly rich — they’re more like a magazine. In this case, GQ.
The Gentleman’s Quarterly, in the tradition of most American magazines, holds out an invitation (with a serrated edge) for the consumer to join its exclusive company. The opening pages present cell phones and shaving accessories I can probably afford, then push ahead to music and movies I haven't yet had the chance to sample but are coming soon to a download service near me, before finally moving on to suits of clothing, exotic spas and scantily-dressed girls that are completely out of my reach. Leafing through the magazine I find my reaction is similar to the one I had with the dot-com kid: I might appreciate the original distraction, but I’m finally keen to get it out of my face.
I’ll take a deep breath, then go on record and just say it: from 1985 to about 1990 I used to really enjoy reading GQ. Its invitation was more appealing, and the let-down was a little gentler. My recollection of the magazine from those years is the pictures were for kids, while the words were (mostly) for grown-ups. I know I’ve moved out of, and quite likely have never been in, the target demographic, but these days the whole shebang is devoted to kids.
But it’s not just this one publication that appalls me, it’s pretty much the whole stand. Where’s a picture-lovin’ word-hungry fella to go for an afternoon’s enticement — Vanity Fair? Lessee, here: we’ve got the watches, the trousers, the Manolo and the movie stars. The encouraged consumption is all a little too conspicuous for this farm boy, but never mind. In the words department, Christopher Hitchens rhapsodizes about blow-jobs and martinis, while Stiglitz and Bilmes tear their robes over the cost of Iraq. Three trillion dollars — isn’t that the yearly retainer for Annie Leibowitz? Talk about a magazine with a split personality. What’s next: Britney Spears on the cover of The Atlantic?
Alright, time for another San Francisco memory, this one from our most recent visit. My wife and I were trudging around Pacific Heights, looking for perspectives into people’s yards. The neighborhoods are terraced with long flights of steps that are perfect for exactly that sort of voyeurism, so we climbed up one such, then parked ourselves on a bench and took in the view. Some minutes later I noticed a white-haired gentleman in a black suit at the bottom step. He was a long way down, but as he got closer I could make out other details. He was smoking a cigar, and his suit and sunglasses were almost certainly Italian. Within a few minutes I could smell his cigar, and it was quite fine. When he reached us he nodded at me, then flashed my wife a sharp smile. He opened his mouth and a gravelly Robert Loggia voice came out and said, “How aahh yah?” The man was fit, sharp, charming and alive, and for that one moment the two of us were part of his glorious conspiracy.
He went on — to his home, his lover, his job ... who knows? Could be he drove the limo we’d seen ten years earlier. Regardless, the old guy left a sensual impression that got the imagination spinning in delightful directions. Somewhat like another magazine: Chicago’s own Stop Smiling.
If you pick up the current issue, you’ll see it’s devoted almost entirely to jazz, “America’s Greatest Art Form.” Anyone who couldn’t give a toss about jazz will reject the magazine outright, and that’s a shame — not because I’m looking for jazz converts, but because any magazine, regardless of its chosen subject matter, is about delivering an appealing look and read. On this score, SS has yet to fail me: I’ve purchased issues with rap artists on the cover, and though I still make it a point to avoid the music, I’ve enjoyed the magazine.
Stop Smiling’s approach has a faint esotericism to it. Where other magazines make their point by assembling an argument and sealing off the exits, SS devotes its pages to personality profiles and interviews, inserts the occasional historic footnote, and closes with a few reviews. All of this is mercifully brief and pleasantly evocative. It makes for a perfect lunch-hour’s worth of reading because it pulls the reader in with its format, which makes the case for an alternate reality that is aesthetically rewarding without being off-puttingly “glamorous.” Like the old gent, it is superficial in the best sense of the word: it invites closer scrutiny.
For reasons I cannot fathom, SS has a scrupulous Internet searcher that rats me out every time I post their cover without permission, no matter how I laud their product. Nevertheless, here I go. This issue has three covers, one of which looks like this:
Their official site is here. Seek it out at your magazine stand today.
*San Francisco’s 49 Mile Scenic Drive is truly one of that unique city’s great innovations for its tourists. If you’re visiting San Francisco, pick up the Dorling Kindersley Eyewitness Guide and take The Drive — by car is fine, taxi is better, but motorcycle or scooter is the very best. Stretch limousines, however, are to be avoided. They just don’t work.
Friday, February 22, 2008
MAKE visits MAD
Somehow I had the impression that MAD Magazine had tanked in the 90s. Hey, it had been a good half-century, or close to it. My favorite issues were published in the 60s and early 70s, the two decades when the magazine was at its pop-cultural zenith. And certainly the brand has been around, usually attached to some sort of tribute or (bleeeech!) money-grubbing nostalgia trip.
But lo and behold, the usual gang of idiots remains gainfully (if Gaines-lessly) employed. Not only that, but if their covers are any indication, they're doing some of their most groan-worthy work to date. My father (a connoisseur of MAD since day 1) sent me this poster, shortly before it became a fait (non) accomplis. But how did I miss Starr Wars?
All this was brought to mind as I perused the MAKE visits MAD Flickr page. It all looks rather like Bart Simpson's visit of those same hallowed halls (link via Boing Boing).
But lo and behold, the usual gang of idiots remains gainfully (if Gaines-lessly) employed. Not only that, but if their covers are any indication, they're doing some of their most groan-worthy work to date. My father (a connoisseur of MAD since day 1) sent me this poster, shortly before it became a fait (non) accomplis. But how did I miss Starr Wars?
All this was brought to mind as I perused the MAKE visits MAD Flickr page. It all looks rather like Bart Simpson's visit of those same hallowed halls (link via Boing Boing).
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Geez Louise, geez!
Speaking of outbursts: here I was, leafing through the latest ish of geez magazine (billed as a publication for "wannabe contemplatives, front-line world-changers and restless cranks." I qualify for two out of three: the last time I was at the front of any line was when I craftily cut in at the premiere of The Return of the Jedi. Oh, but the Lord did mete out a swift and stupendous plague for my young adult skullduggery: Ewoks!! And with them the narrative collapse of Lucas's Campbellian empire. Never, never again. Now I take my rightful place at the back of the line, and I don't complain.) when what do I see, but this — my snark!Up until that point, I'd been thinking, Well, well. Either geez is finding its groove, or I'm finally catching on, or we're experiencing a pleasant confluence of the two. Lots of nifty riffings off of Walter Wink's train of thought, which I rather like. Then I see myself quoted: "geez has been a mostly ho-hum experience." Ouch. Oh well: I'm gratified to see geez printing other, even nastier opinions. And I'm even more gratified to be following its progress as a mischief-making mag. (I still advocate the interview as one of the fastest ways to get an idea across.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)