hunter s. thompson in the afternoon.

mr. gonzo himself: hunter s. thompson.

i think one of my favorite memories from my short-lived stint as an office monkey at wenner media was natalie's glam rock party, when cody and adam were drunkenly retelling RS stories from days gone by and the one came up about how hunter s. thompson got a huge load of edits from an irate jann and responded by walking into jann's office with a fire extinguisher and shot the fire safety device off in the face of the editor of rolling stone. hammered cody, in turn, ripped the fire extinguisher off the columbia university dorm room wall and proceeded to pull the pin, which filled the apartment with nasty foam and left the rest of us laughing our asses off as natalie's roommate panicked and screamed at cody while donning a silver leotard and red velvet cape. we're such media dorks, guys.

anyways. long story short: i love hunter s. thompson, and when we talk influences, he may be the one that i credit when it comes to honing my creativity and giving me something to aspire to as a ballsy writer.

i'm deleting this from my profile on facebook so i wanted to put it somewhere. here it goes, my favorite hunter quote.

"...no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. whatever it meant ... history is hard to know, because of all of the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of 'history' it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands all the time - and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened."

-Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

a little rant on rolling stone.

in the spring of 2008, i was one of the dozen or so interns trying to sneak their foot in the ever-slamming door of the editorial department of rolling stone magazine.  i had worked my way up to this since the summer before my sophomore year of college: hopelessly naive, i had sent my resume off to wenner media in a huge manila envelope along with a cover letter that probably read something like "i dig music and i am different hire me please."  needless to say, i didn't get the editorial internship then, but i did my time at a theatre trade paper, the [then] poor man's esquire for the bro set which has since morphed into a hip-hop publication with tarantino-esque photo spreads, and the now [sadly] folded men's vogue over at conde nast.  i applied for an editorial internship at rolling stone while still making photocopies and transcribing interviews at men's vogue [which i loved], went in for an interview that afternoon and scored the gig sometime in the middle of november.  i was ecstatic.  i've been reading rolling stone since childhood and "almost famous" solidified my desire to work in any capacity for the publication responsible for defining rock journalism.  the gist: i fucking love rolling stone for what it stands for, what it's accomplished as a pop culture force to be reckoned with and for the unapologetic editorial content that's remained consistent since the inception of the magazine.

WITH THAT SAID: i understand and often agree with the sentiments and gripes which seem to dominate any conversation regarding jann wenner's rock n' roll baby.  "it's irrelevant.  we get it, rolling stone, you got a major hard-on for bob dylan and bruce springsteen.  write about someone else who's, uh, releasing SOMEthing this year." "they put the girls from the hills on the cover. THE HILLS. are they fucking serious?" "whatever dude i just read pitchfork."  i've piped up in the defense of rolling stone in several of these interactions:  i was just as nauseated as the last person when i saw frilly panty-clad heidi montag and lauren conrad posing a pillow fight tableau on the cover of RS, but jason gay's story was a compelling commentary on american consumerism and entertainment and how definitions of fame, fortune, talent and the core of creativity have changed.  i don't agree with half of pitchfork's reviews and rarely read it, though i will concede that they trump RS with their incredible online presence and self-imposed authority on live acts and independent music in the united states.  you can bitch and moan and complain about how rolling stone has lost touch with its initial mission and how editorial judgement may or may not have determined the death sentence for the iconic magazine, but you can't deny that it's still there.   i maintain that jenny eliscu is one of the most talented writers to ever hit the masthead over there and i think that austin scaggs is capable of relating to musicians and fans from all walks of life and that vanessa grigoriadis works like a dog to get an expose out.  you can't deny that.  rolling stone is rolling fucking stone and that's just it, man.

where's this all going?  while i was still at RS the decision had been made that the magazine would shrink from its standard tabloid pages to a smaller more eco-friendly size.  kudos, RS, right?  i was kind of bummed about the size change, but i got it and applauded them for the change.  fast forward to this week, where i picked up the new issue with kings of leon on the cover and noticed this:

i don't know if you can see this from the picture, but it's FUCKING. TINY.  the latest issue clocks in at a measly 74 PAGES.  it's smaller than current issues of people magazine, for christ's sake.  and BOB DYLAN, AGAIN, gets the first headline on the cover.  there's good stuff in there, don't get me wrong, but rolling stone, 74 PAGES?!  you're a biweekly! is there some huge issue coming up in the near future that's required more editorial attention?  i don't get it. this is the magazine that discovered annie liebowitz, revolutionized the interview and transported readers from the couches in their living rooms to the dressing rooms, hotel lobbies and stage doors that were passed through by the most notable musical acts in modern american history.  it makes me really sad to think that this magazine that i've loved so much is slowly disintegrating before my very eyes.