July 25, 2007


I'm home visiting my mom and have come into full awareness of something I have been reluctant to admit for some time: O, the Oprah magazine, is the only magazine that doesn't make me feel like Quasimodo when I get done reading it. (When was the last time you read any magazine that didn't make you feel like you had to rush (RUSH!) and get new conditioner, consider botox, feel manic about needing to buy some shoes/have a baby/husband/co-op modernist condo or or or having your whole face lasered clean off. And then theres the questionnaires about how what kind of underwear you buy determines your likely-hood of dying alone, in case you were not already in need of a palm full of Xanax.) I have foregone my naptime for Oprah-mag study these last two days and this I know for sure: It's pure PMA. It's feminist, it's almost entirely first person essays and it's heavy on being real about the same dualities and weirdness re: being a lady in a patriarchy. Which essentially qualifies it as a riot girl fanzine. Also, it doesn't shame you for not being rich or cosmopolitan or being disorganized or having cellulite. It acknowledges people being poor, women getting raped and the radical notion being married with children may not fulfill your every need. By virtue of of not being glossy soul-crush, O is right up there on my list behind New Yorker and Cooks Illustrated as the only magazine that doesn't make me wish a wolverine would sneak up an eat my brain right out of my skull.

I wish that somehow The New Yorker, or a heretofore unconcieved magazine very similar to The New Yorker would merge with O, and then it could be the women's super-magazine, and then when I go to HMS or wherever you buy magazines in the airport, and the "women's interest" section is all pro-bulimia fash mags and stuff about decorating, shopping, and preparing meals for other people and the "men's interest" section is magazines about politics, current events, money, tits, fishing and MUSIC MAGAZINES I SOMETIMES WRITE FOR, I don't feel like I want to kill myself via throwing myself hard at the Cubs commemorative keychain rack.

I know I mention this same exact thing every time I go on the airplane or the chain book store, but it's so depressing. As someone who writes for magazines. Or as someone who reads in English. I know caring about how the magazines are sold to us is some real high class problems with a war on and girl babies being buried alive in fields in India because people think girls are useless.

I'm just saying.

So. Someone make me the music editor at O magazine, you need at least a page of CD reviews. I'm into Anita Baker and D. Boon, and music is a women's interest, I swear with my whole life it is.

Posted by Jessica at July 25, 2007 12:37 AM | TrackBack