Friday, July 16, 2010

The five magazines you'll meet in college

Magazines, like their subscribers, tend to possess certain character traits. While I can't speak to the college experience at other schools, I'm pretty sure these are the five magazines I met, tolerated, actively avoided, antagonized, or partied with at NYU.

GQ is a stone cold closet case, and reads like your poor uncle's "roommate" at a reunion. At NYU, GQ would be a Gay by May. You're confused when he shows up to the first floor meeting in an Alexander McQueen vest and vintage Oxfords, animatedly referring to "the fuckable Emma Stone." That mystery will reach a fever pitch when his high school girlfriend, a meaty journalism major, comes to visit in October. For the next few months you'll remain cripplingly unsure of your gaydar, until one night a preponderance of Bacardi Ice will provoke him to caress the nearest theater queer. He'll try to blame it on the alcohol and Gaga remix, but you'll know. We'll aaall know.

That bulldog is such a Samantha, girlfriend.

Like its readers, VICE is simultaneously whipsmart funny and exasperatingly douchey. The prototypical "Gallatin Kid," it will condescend to you even while picking carpet fibers out of its handlebar moustache. Going days without a shower to achieve the perfect heroin chic, VICE bangs any LA chick with wing tattoos on her shoulder blades. Yeah, you're a witty fuck and you're "personal friends" (?) with the creators of CobraSnake, but without your parents' money you're two semesters away from a job at Think Coffee.

The New Yorker
Reading articles in The New Yorker is one thing; buying a subscription to it is quite another. Despite coming from a wealthy background, The New Yorker is painfully sincere and apologetic of its whiteness. Doubtless, it has a flickr account where it confers meaning on otherwise banal or arrogant subject matter, completing a final project of portraits of homeless people. After graduation, it will retire to Lenox Hill and become a set decorator for Pottery Barn catalogs.

The Economist
The Economist came to NYU in search of knowledge, and of itself. From the first time it heard the tender strains of Neutral Milk Hotel, it became aware of the human capacity for evil, tempered only by heroism through social action. As a poli sci major, The Economist infuses history lectures with quotes by Foucault and Chomsky, and will win the heart and vagina of every girl on Campus Democrats. Lover, humanitarian, and intellectual, professor recommendations will secure The Economist a managing position at a non-profit. It will die with unpaid student loans.

Vogue is a finicky Arab princess getting its business degree in Stern. Whether her father made money in medicine or oil, you'll be sure to hear all about it in recitation. It didn't hurt to have a trophy wife for a mom, who imparted at least part of her looks and most of her psychological disorder onto her daughter. Subsisting on a diet of baked falafel, arugula, and sake bombs, Vogue is equal parts party girl and snarky bitch. She will get what she wants, because she always has--and she'll do it in Christian Louboutin pumps.

Still, gotta love that alma mater.

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