I had a simple desire as I searched the newsstand in the airport before departing on my early morning flight from Oakland back to Seattle: I wanted something to read. Little did I know that I was putting forward a Herculean request.
My eyes quickly skipped over the Cosmo, Vogue, and other so-called “women’s” magazines. I’m not sure why the world is so ready to assume that all women are obsessed with youth, beauty, and how to have better sex in their marriage, but when it comes to these magazines there might as well be only one publication, because it’s all the same vacuous shit. I glanced over at the home improvement/room renovation zines, but decided to pass. I like my house the way it is, and despite wanting a better-looking bedroom, I seriously doubt these glossy magazines exclaiming that “pink is the new black” would give me a design I might be happy with.
After looking at several young, beautiful, airbrushed faces smiling back at me with cover girl perfection, I finally came to my senses and looked for my old standbys: Time and Newsweek. When all else fails, I can rely on these magazines to provide interesting and informative content that doesn’t assume I want to read a ten page expose on anti-aging unless it’s strictly rooted in science and mentions the word Alzheimer’s at least two dozen times. I push the stroller over to the one rack of intellectually challenging publications, which is buried in the newsstand between a barrage of men’s fitness magazines, new technology publications, and sleazy, near-porn rags like Stuff and FHM. I guess they assume that in between working for better abs, tricking out your car sound system, and jacking off to Hollywood’s latest batch of would-be starlets, men might actually want to read something that makes them think.
Unfortunately, for the first time in all my travels, which have been significant, my old standbys let me down. Three fashionable, fresh-faced, youthful teenagers smiled back at me from the cover of Newsweek. The subject was a profile on colleges, which seems a little odd given that we are one week away from Labor Day, and if you are a teen who hasn’t gotten off their ass and chosen a college by now, you are pretty much S.O.L. until Spring at the very least. I’m not criticizing Newsweek for doing a profile of colleges, I’m sure they did a great job, but a cover that resembles Teen People caught me off guard, and made me want to email a nasty letter to the editor. Do they realize that they are sharing the newsstand with other magazines who have nearly identical covers, only instead of colleges, those other zines profile zit cream side-by-side with questionnaires that will tell you if you are really “a slut or a savvy sweetheart.”
Next to Newsweek was an even more disappointing Time featuring singer Kanye West. No disrespect to Mr. West, who is a talented artist, but wouldn’t a sexy posing R&B singer be more appropriate for, oh I don’t know…Rolling Stone, rather than a magazine that should be talking about the fact that I’m paying nearly $3 a gallon for gas!
I took one more glace at the newsstand as I was mentally kicking myself for leaving my book at home. Why hadn’t I thought of bringing the latest issue of BUST, The Nation, or any other zine that is designed to be read by an audience with a few non-pop culture addicted brain cells. Has our print media completely turned all reigns of control over to the National Enquirer?
As I leave the newsstand in disgust, I eye the latest issue of People proclaiming that Angelina Jolie is the new mother of the year for adopting an African orphan. Good for her for giving an orphan a home, but I think People is going a little too far. I’m no mother of the year, myself, but I don’t keep a vile of Jeff’s blood around my neck. Below the ridiculous People was the face of Jennifer Aniston on the cover of Us Weekly talking about her divorce from Brad Pitt. I could so give a shit less about all three of these human beings. First of all, this story is old news. Secondly, I was never that much of a fan of any of their work. Finally, a divorce in Hollywood: why is this news? Getting a divorce in Hollywood is like losing your virginity in the back seat of yours or your boyfriend’s car after a rock concert in high school, nearly everyone does it, so is there really a need to keep talking about it.
I walk to the gate realizing that I would rather spend the entire 90 minute flight repeatedly reading my daughter’s cartoon, thick-paged book, Count with Mendel, rather than use up one iota of my time taking in the newsstand garbage. From now on, whether I plan on reading or not, I’m packing my own eye candy, because as long as I live I doubt I will ever give a rat’s ass about Angelina, Brad or Jennifer, and I know I will never spend $4 to read about them.
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