Heeb isn’t making any friends by publishing with a mild racial slur as its title, but one has to respect any publication that has been attacked by both the Catholic League and the Anti-Defamation League. The cover proclaims this month’s offering to be “the Sex Issue,” with the slogan “Holy Sheet!” next to a woman holding up the good ol’ Hasidic sheet with a hole in it. As far as risque Jewish-themed puns go, this one is just below, “It’s my first time … be Gentile.”
That’s okay, though, because the magazine is far wittier than one would expect. An article on Israel’s only S&M club is headlined with the quote, “The U.N. was really torn about whether or not to condemn this: On the one hand, an Israeli was beating someone; on the other hand, it was an Israeli being beaten.”
It’s sad to have to cast stones at such a witty magazine (like casting stones at an IDF tank — get it?), but Heeb does have its flaws; namely, a section that can only be described as biblical hentai. This being a Jewish magazine, though, Revelations’ tentacle beasts are thankfully absent.
Lip bills itself as the magazine of “informed revolt,” which is accurate if by “informed” they mean “r” and by “revolt” they mean “eprinting 30-year-old Village Voice articles.”
Sorry, Lip, but that’s barely allowed in American Studies midterms, and certainly isn’t a permissible way to fill up space in this rough-papered little monument to the counterculturality of the Lip editors.
Of course, no such magazine is complete without one-sided articles on the following topics: Zapatistas, corporate influence and Zapatistas. It’s too bad this wasn’t the sex issue; the readership could have been treated to pictures of hot Chiapas rebels in nothing but their balaclavas, and maybe some advice on using automanipulation as anti-NAFTA protest. ¡Ya Basta!
Perhaps the moral of Lip is that even the most intelligent of left-wing commentary is trapped like a bonsai kitten in the glass confines of its own shrill, masturbatory milieu. Although the attempt to scrabble out is admirable. Meow.
If you want to know the future of Player magazine, imagine a boot stomping on a female face. Forever.
This magazine is aimed at a certain materialistic and misogynistic subgroup; let’s call him, for purposes of research, “Banky McBankBank the I-Banker.” Banky likes to know about things that are restricted to parvenus like himself. Banky loves hearing about all the third-rate hangout spots where he can meet fourth-rate celebrities and fifth-rate strumpets, and just can’t get enough of full-page ads for humidors.
The only consolation for an intelligent reader is that in a happier era, Player’s readership would have been castrated and forced to guard the harem. At least there’s no pretense; more than half the magazine is composed of either ads for or articles about ostentatious accoutrements that will make hot models touch each other, or possibly even hide their grimaces as they touch you.
While Player tries to come across as a vivacious, feel-good publication for the nouveaux riches, it ends up being sadder than an AIDS quilt. Read this publication if you’d like to experience less popularity and sex than the average Civil War re-enactor.