Actually, I'm a gigantic magazine whore, but only for certain publications. I've cultivated my snobbery over decades. It started the same with anyone else, Teen Beat, Jane, Seventeen. I loved the short articles on nail polish and dating accompanied by the latest pin-up photos of the New Kids on the Block. My cousin Dana had a thing for Joey, but I always knew that bad-boy Donny would do great things.
But eventually I graduated to Cosmopolitan and Real Simple and realized that women's magazines are shit. The articles are shallow and idiotic and advertising monopolizes the rest. It didn't help matters when I was in journalism school and learned that many product "reviews" were actually a result of the product company successfully pitching the story idea to the magazine, who simply regurgitated a press release unbeknowst to their readers. Imagaine my horror!
In time, I discovered the joys of men's magazines. I've mentioned before that I love Men's Health Magazine. I also enjoy Esquire and loved George until its demise. In fact, there is a fabulous article in this month's issue of Esquire about Angelina Jolie. There's also a short story by Stephen King. Frankly, I don't know which one lights my fire more -- Angelina ... short story by Stephen. It may be a toss up. 
As I was reading this particular issue, it hit me why I prefer a good men's magazine -- no bullshit writing. They don't pansy ass around with flowery writing that basically says nothing. It's hard hitting, straight to the point, right in the gut. I really like that.
The Angeline interview had some very memorable imagery as well. Again, not flowery, just honest. Like you and the writer are having a casual conversation in a coffeehouse. It's the discourse of two intelligent people who are interested in what the other has to share.
"She has this rep, you see. People talk about her though she's a different species -- as though they find her sexy in the way a dog might find a wolf sexy. And there's some of that when you meet her. She's not short, but she's very small, down to her bones, which are like twigs. And yet her flesh -- her golden, mortified flesh -- is extrodinary: Like the sheets on a barracks bed, there's no slack to it. And it shines. The beauty mark splashed over the finial of bone adorning her bare shoulder: It shines. She shines all over."
I also really like Mark Morford at the San Francisco Gate. He wrote a great column recently about Google's new street view technology. But Mark is a little different than a magazine writer since he can voice his own opinion on the issues. He's just a smartass. A smug, cool, awesome smartass. And you just have to love that.
Maybe all these perspectives merely scratch the surface of GSV's true implications and the real joy comes from the knowledge that if a goofy, massively popular, insanely wealthy public Internet company has already gone this far, has already gotten this up close and personal with our daily lives, you can absolutely rest assured our own government has certainly gone much, much further.
I think this personality glitch in me is why I failed in corporate writing. I did it very well -- and still do -- but I hated the results. I prefer straightfoward, even artistic, writing to any of the double-speak.
But you can't write like a smug, smartass and keep your job. At least not in the Midwest. Or maybe I should say, at least not for money.
Rolling Stone, can you hear me....
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