Filtering by Tag: MAGAZINES

Vegetarians Need Not Apply

The editor of this magazine and I talked about me writing something for the magazine, and while that didn't work out, I was excited to see it on the newsstand. I love the title -- CARNIVORE -- and I love the cover: the chef's coat, the rifle in hand, the slab of raw meat. It's all very visceral. This magazine is for you if you enjoy hunting, you enjoy eating what you hunt, and you want to join the call to arms of the FIELD TO TABLE REVOLUTION. Also: you can learn how to make a wild boar patty melt, and who hasn't been pining for a boar melt lately? 

Eye of the Beholder

A Hearst heiress claims Cosmo is porn. But is it? Other than the tops of SJP's tits runningeth over, I didn't find the cover ... pornographic, per se. Inside, there were lots of ads. They may have exhibited the pornography of women, but I didn't find them to be ... porn. The front of the book was mostly: fashion, OMG hot actors, and stuff to do/read/smear on your face. There was a beauty image featuring a Darth Vader mask wearing a pink satin sleeping mask, which some Star Warsians might find offensive, but I don't think they would find it particularly titillating. Questions answered involved: how to style your hair better, how to get tan, how to minimize pores. One two-page spread wondered: "Are you a Kendall or a Kylie?" (Why can't I be both?) The back of the book had feature stories on: a young woman who had liver cancer, a model with vitiligo, the cast of the "hip-hopera" Hamilton. It wasn't until page 163 of the issue's 212 pages that things got, well, randy. In a photo, a hand held a cob of corn aloft. "Long Live the Hand Job?!" the headline crowed, confused. The piece was written by Tracy Clark-Flory, who's a friend of mine, and its point is really about love, not sex. The following pages host a personal essay about a woman who slept with a male model and lived to regret it: "Suddenly, the sight of his well-sculpted body was the last thing I wanted to see." Most of the rest of the sexy content was helpful, seemingly written for those who are still trying to figure it all out. Victoria Hearst is finding success in her attempts to get store copies of Cosmo covered up because, in her mind, it's "pornography." But it didn't seem to be porn to me. It seemed like it was a product that was created to meet a demand. Young women want to understand their sexuality, and it appears there are too few outlets for them to do it. So, there's Cosmo, leading the way.

Write Like This

You want to write like a real journalist? Write like this. That's what I'm thinking. I loved reading this. It's like watching a writer swing from sentence to sentence, hanging by his word choices.

We made our way downslope, to an abandoned mine. The tunnel entrance was twenty feet wide, maybe ten feet high. Ilasaca produced two hard hats and a miner’s lamp from a backpack, and we headed in. “I used to work in here,” he said. “There’s enough oxygen, from old shafts that go to the surface.” He gestured toward the depths of the mountain. As the tunnel narrowed, the air got musty and the darkness, within fifty yards of the entrance, was absolute. Ilasaca was careful to light my way. He showed me mineralized veins in the walls, glittering between rough slabs of black Ordovician slate. When the quijo angled upward, he said, so would the tunnel, and it did. This had all been dug with hand tools and dynamite, he said. “Maybe two metres a day.” Back then, the lamps had been carbide, he said, burning acetylene gas. These nice bright electric headlamps we had, with battery packs that attached to your belt, were relatively new. He stopped to listen to my breathing, which was getting ragged. The tunnel ceiling had been dropping, obliging me to crouch. My thighs were burning from the effort. I was O.K., I said, just altitude weary. More coca, Ilasaca said. I had bought coca leaves that morning, from an old woman on the street in La Rinconada. Everybody here chewed them, I was told, to stave off exhaustion and hunger. I stuffed a wad in my cheek. The leaves were stiff and bitter. Ilasaca also took a wad. The quartz vein in the tunnel wall turned downward, the tunnel followed it, and at a certain depth we found our progress halted by an icy-looking pond. Ilasaca studied the vein, tapping it with his fingertips. I wondered what he saw in its fissures and glints.

Buy THE TUMOR: "This is one of the weirdest, smartest, most disturbing things you will read this year."

SATAN IS OFFENDED

Texas Monthly editor Jason Cohen notes the phrase "face-fucked by Satan" appears in a recent issue of the New Yorker.

From "Fire-Eaters: The Search for the Hottest Chili" by Lauren Collins:

"Then, in August of last year, Ed Currie, of the PuckerButt Pepper Company, of Fort Mill, South Carolina, unveiled a new contender. Currie announced, 'The PuckerButt Pepper Company has raised the bar for hot pepper heat intensity by producing an amazing hot pepper, the Smokin’ Ed’s Carolina Reaper, which surpasses the current world record holder, the Butch T Trinidad Scorpion.' The Carolina Reaper’s recommended uses, according to PuckerButt’s Web site, included hot sauces, salsa, and 'settling old scores.' Steven Leckart wrote in Maxim that eating one was 'like being face-fucked by Satan.'"

When I was an undergrad at UC Berkeley, one of my writing professors was author Maxine Hong Kingston. She told a story in which she claimed to have been responsible for the first "fuck" in the New Yorker. She stated she advocated for its inclusion by arguing its one-syllable-ness made it more Chinese-like, and therefore the ideal word choice.