Mar
26
The recession has already killed a number of mags. Some were short-lived start-ups, others, so far, had been mainstays in the publishing biz. Titles I thought were unfaltering, suffering an unjust demise. Entirely tragic.
To make myself feel a bit better about the whole thing, I’ve adopted the adage, “It’s not the length of life, but the quality of life lived.” Still. It’s the very quality of these mags ending which has me going from shock to depression and back again; stages one and six of the Seven Stages of Magazine Grief.
To wallow a little more in my writer’s gloom, I seem to seek places where I can further confront my denial–stage two–by visiting mag blogs, pour over publishing industry feeds and websites, or by simply walking among Magazines at Chapters, where no one is safe from my stage five anger.
I see a young man in the Entertainment section flip through Photolife. He carefully replaces the magazine when he hasn’t found what he’s looking for, and picks up Flaunt to thumb through next. I decide I respect this man’s choices of editorial fare and figure him to be a magophile. I gather all my mag-loving courage and embark. You see that? Pointing to Arena. April is the last issue. Then no more. Twenty years later and no more. You should buy that issue because it’s the last one. I think I am too. I’m going to start a little museum of sorts of every magazine’s last issue. How about you? Do you think the last issue is good?
I kid you not. I do do this.
Rarely does a Canadian turn away when I exhibit my outburst. Some actually nod and give me the no-speak-English face. Usually though, the magazine being read gets shifted a little higher, and just like that, the publication curtain has been raised, the innocent bystander’s face is concealed, and I’m staring at the glossy cover I wonder will survive last-minute advertisers pulling-out, and smaller stories being written in-house.
I never bought an issue of Radar; even when it got revived, not once, not twice, but three times. I don’t think I ever even flipped through a single issue of Domino.
Why not InStyle? Why Men’s Vogue? My stage three bargaining is irreconcilable. My stage four guilt cannot be assuaged.
The only thing I find myself doing to distract my thoughts is to reflect on the meaning of mag life, and every mag’s place in it.
Which is why, conversely, I’m thinking of mag death, and the evolution of only the strong surviving.
I can’t exactly explain why my mind has embodied the magazines I’m most concerned about as astrological signs, complete with personalities, but it has. It most likely has something to do with how I regard magazines as living, breathing things. Entities. Beings. My late night phone call before going to bed. My first coffee of the day.
So, if you hate horoscopes, or the humour of comedian Chris Rock, I suggest you refrain from reading any further. Acceptance and hopeful stage seven readers of this blog, may do so, tenably.
Capricorn Architectural Digest: you’re gonna die.
Aquarius The Source: you’re gonna die.
Pisces Lou Lou: you’re gonna die.
Aries BlackBook: you’re gonna die.
Taurus Woman’s World: you’re gonna die.
Gemini Rolling Stone: you’re gonna die. Twice.
Cancer Reader’s Digest: you’re gonna die.
Leo FHM: you’re gonna die.
Virgo National Geographic: you’re gonna die.
Libra Allure: you’re gonna die.
Scorpio Dining Out: you’re gonna die.
Sagittarius Donna Hay: you’re gonna die.
IMAGE | uploaded by So Jergis | do you read me?! berlin | from flickr.com | 3 February 2009
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2 Responses to “Sign of the Time, and the ReadyMade, and maybe the Your Prom too.”
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How about Magazine Funerals? We can communally mourn. I liked Domino for the first several issues, then they all began to look and feel the same from issue to issue. I’m shelling out for five bucks’ worth of inspiration, and want my mags to deliver!
The demise of Blueprint made me sad, though. I’m guarding my back issues, including the one with the delicious meat rub recipe. Drat you, magazine gods!!
Donna Hay for the sagittarius???? PFFFF!