Filtering by Tag: MAGAZINES
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?
A.O. Scott has a short sort of preview review of "Weiner," the upcoming doc about Anthony Weiner and what the hell goes on inside his head:
"In 2013, as he tried to rehabilitate himself with a run for mayor of New York City, he invited the documentary filmmakers Josh Kriegman and Elyse Steinberg to observe his campaign. They recorded his further self-immolation, and the resulting film has a queasy irresistibility, even as it remains a bit coy about its own motives."
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.
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."
I wrote a silly thing about cleavag for Men's Health.
"Sure, her face is beautiful, her breasts are impressive, and her hips are pleasing, but what draws your eye downtown is the barely-covered area between her bellybutton and her crotch. The top of her bikini pulled low, she practically demands us to gaze upon this year’s newest trend: a daring flash of vagina cleavage."
From Rebecca Mead's "A City Run by Children":
"As we walked through the pedestrian streets, we passed bronze statues of inspirational eminences represented as children—Martin Luther King, Florence Nightingale, Mahatma Gandhi—while real children darted around us with fists full of kidzos. 'You go to Disneyland, and you see all those kids walking with their parents, very tired,' López remarked. 'There is two minutes of magic—the ride—and then they see the Disney characters, which no one can surpass. But here, most of the time they are running, engaged, happy.' Occasionally we came across an adult wearing the costume of one of KidZania’s RightzKeepers—anime-like cartoon characters who represent the six rightz of children. They are KidZania’s equivalent of Mickey and Minnie and include Urbano, a green-haired boy, who represents the 'right to know,' and Chika, who has purple hair and cat ears, and represents the 'right to share.' López said of Chika, 'She’s all about meeting people—her biggest ambition is to get a million friends.' López greeted the Zupervisors and other staff with 'Kai!' and a splayed hand to the heart. In the town square, there was a golden statue modelled on a celebrated one in Mexico City depicting the Angel of Independence. 'That one is a naked woman, but ours has to have clothes, because it is for children,' he said. It was like being in a reimagined Las Vegas, with the celebration of virtue substituted for the celebration of sin."
My god, Jennifer Weiner is fucking annoying. She's made a career out of writing crappy books and carping about how men are to blame for her lack of being taken seriously when the reality is that her books are what cause her to lack being taken seriously.
Most recently, she crawled out of the ooze to weinerwhine about how pubic hair or something: "Great! Another Thing to Hate About Ourselves." She wordclutters on for a while before getting to her point:
"This year, the hot new body part is the formerly unnoticed span of flesh between the top of one’s panties and the labia majora, currently displayed on the cover of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition by the model Hannah Davis."
In other words, Weiner says, the SI cover is POORRRNNNN:
"With hard-core pornography available to anyone with a laptop and a credit card, Sports Illustrated has to raise the stakes if it wants to stay relevant."
Followed by this HILARIOUS admission:
"(Disclosure: my gentleman caller edits books for Sports Illustrated and is the author of the oral history of the swimsuit issue that appears in '50 Years of Beautiful,' a coffee-table book of swimsuit shots. #Awkward.)"
The rest is a fuzzy blur of complaints against Hannah's "mons pubis" and some sort of garbled defense of a vagina area that is hirsute and fat. Or something. I was left weinerized. #Confused.
(See also: FUPA.)
Personally, I was more excited by SI's half-crotch shot because I was like: TREND. What the image makes us look for is ... what to call it?
I settled on cleavag.
Let's celebrate it.
"Although it was founded on the breezy idea that city should be swim, SwimCity is not a free-for-all vacation destination, zoned for the pursuit of happiness. It is a regimented, horny hell. The most famous models like Twitter phenom Chrissy Teigen and Real Housewives daughter Gigi Hadid are sequestered from visitors by stages and roped-off lines. Lesser-known swimsuit gals pose for photos on the floor with the men who have come to see them in the middle of a work day. Gray-suited bodyguards flank them, sometimes correcting visitor behavior. No hands! Don't lean! Move it along!"
"Nobody believes me when I say this but Playgirl readers really cared about those hunks. Similarly, Mental Floss readers really care about the facts. Which is to say that both brands have very enthusiastic audiences. The difference is that at Mental Floss we hear from readers in droves on the rare occasion we get a fact wrong. The correspondence we got at Playgirl was … different."
The next issue of V magazine features Kate Upton on the cover. It's a double cover, really. The top cover is a semi-transparent sheet with Upton's clothes on it. Peel it back, and Upton strips for you. The cover headline reads: "Why Can't Kate Upton Keep Her Clothes On?"
"When asked about the cover’s title, i.e. why she 'can’t keep her clothes on,' the model offered: 'Because I don’t want to!'"
Fashion Copious has the first peek I've seen of the Kate Moss-covered January/February 2014 60th anniversary issue of Playboy.
Additional images posted to the Instagram account of photographers Mert and Marcus indicate there's an "Exclusive Marc Jacobs" edition that features a different photo of Moss, this one with more bottom.
Update: Here's a better shot of the cover and some of the pics inside.
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.