Cowards die a thousand deaths, the brave man only one and Spy magazine somewhere in between. This time, though, it's apparently really, truly dead; the subscription list has been sold, which explains why I am now receiving some strange publication called P.O.V.
After two issues of P.O.V., I'm not sure quite what to think. The magazine's target audience seems to be twentysomething smartass white guys, presumably the people who were actually reading Spy, and a group for which I qualify on three out of a possible four points. Still, my 75-percent compliance has yet to make me enthusiastic about this Gen-X Esquire wannabe, perhaps because P.O.V. seems to be perpetuating the notion that even if you don't have a life, you can still have a lifestyle, which runs smack-dab into my long-standing distrust for brand-managed bliss.
Then again, it's not like this particular road is the one less traveled by. Eight years ago, the late Malcolm Forbes, perhaps sensing that he couldn't take it with him, decided to dissipate some of it while he could, and he brought forth upon this nation something called Egg ("My sister pulled the word out of nowhere one day, and we thought it was funny," explained editor Hal Rubenstein in issue #1), dedicated to the proposition that fun is, well, fun to have. Mr Forbes didn't last too long after that, and neither did Egg, though the magazine did manage a couple of accomplishments during its brief existence: inflicting Jim Mullen's Hot Sheet upon the world it's now in Entertainment Weekly and printing the best-ever photo of Mary Hart from here down. Neither of these, though, would seem to justify P.O.V.'s plan to relaunch Egg as a "bi-annual nightlife guide" for its core constituency. But maybe just I'm being picky; after all, it could wind up being ideal for me, since I go out only about twice a year.
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Copyright © 1998 by Charles G. Hill