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MODERN DRUNKARD
by Fern Siegel
MediPost Publications, New York
Aug. 30, 2006
Admit it--if you walked by a newsstand, you'd pick it up. So would
Carrie Nation. Even Lynne Cheney might give it a glance. That's what
catchy titles are all about--so outrageous, you can't turn away.
True, much of the pro-drinking prose results in a literary hangover,
but who could resist the cover line "Inebriated in Iran"? So throw a
few cubes into your highball--if it was good enough for Nick Charles,
it's good enough for you--and down Modern Drunkard. (And if you
don't know Nick Charles, you're in for a treat. Rent "The Thin Man,"
in which William Powell plays Nick Charles, the suave, cheeky 1930s
PI with panache--aided by enough gin, scotch and bourbon to keep the
Titanic afloat.)
Now, we're not suggesting that excess is laudable--or that MD appeals
to anyone other than males 18-to-25 who consider alcohol a second
career. True, Tennessee Williams and Eugene O'Neill produced great art,
but talent played a bigger role than Tanqueray. Yet MD capitalizes on
a renegade motif, film-noir design and a novel line when soliciting
subscriptions: "it's hip, it's dangerous, it'll fill your family with
dread." Especially if you're applying to law school.
Yet for a magazine that shows up on a New York newsstand, the ads
are parochial--all Denver-based. That's because the editorial staff,
which proudly claims a bar in the office, is on a perennial Rocky
Mountain high. Apparently, so is the sales team, whose inventory
extends to local pubs and the occasional attorney, no doubt suing
on behalf of the injured party in a bar brawl. Strangely, what you
won't find are liquor ads. What you will find is a poetry editor.
Submissions show up in "Postcards from Skid Row," where one
enterprising entrant wrote a haiku to Jack Daniels. It's Sylvia Plath
for barflies.
But first, it's necessary to plow through the frat-boy groaners, like
"The Wingman's Handbook," a salute to men who help their pal get the
girl. The wingman's job is to distract her friend so his buddy can
score. Of course, nine times out of 10 wingman and company aren't
wading in the deep end of the gene pool. And the women, far from
distractible, are tripping over each other in their race to the exit.
It's one thing to imagine a hot babe, a couple of Stolis and a night
of bliss. But it only counts if you don't have to put money on the
dresser.
However, MD understands brand identity, clearly reinforced with
merchandise, graphics and stories. Each piece has an alcohol link,
whether the subject is political, historic or cultural. For instance,
"FDR: Portrait of a Drinking President," salutes our most-esteemed
commander-in-chief for beating the Nazis, spearheading The New Deal
and repealing Prohibition, though MD would put axing Prohibition
ahead of Hitler. Yes, its priorities are screwy, but that's the point:
It's all about the booze.
Which is why MD notes FDR's love of hooch in detail. Many biographers
have written about his--and his sons'--drinking, so it's not a reach.
The article notes the real reason FDR legalized drink: the revenue.
Alcohol generated big bucks in state and federal tax dollars,
something Depression-era America desperately needed. Never mind that
after reading the newspaper--then and now--it's easy to see why gin
is considered a vitamin.
Similarly, "The Rise of the Dives" takes a socio-cultural look at
the working-class bar and its psychological significance to patrons
of all classes. The article quotes Jim Atkinson, who, in the book
The View from Nowhere, describes dives as a place of "transcendent
egalitarianism." Or, it could be a reaction to the Botox-obsessed,
hit-the-gym, fast-track lifestyle. Whatever else a dive is, it isn't
a place where fitness and drive reign. It is, in an odd way, authentic.
Still, one takes MD's wino wisdom, et. al. with a chaser, though I
agree with its purist approach to martinis: Gin. Vermouth. Olive.
Forget the peach gin or apple martinis or lemongrass vermouth. It would
be like Ann Coulter embracing Hillary Clinton; it's just not done.
Nor, despite evidence to the contrary, would a sane person touch
alcohol in Iran. The mullahs decreed that anyone caught drinking would
be subject to 40 lashes. It may be, as the writer of "Inebriated
in Iran" suggests, that the Armenian Christian minority and even a
few Muslims have their liquor connections. But is a Tuborg worth a
flogging? MD sticks to its credo, but fellas, there are limits. How
drunk do you have to be before the concept of whipped into shape
kicks in?
Fern Siegel is Deputy Editor of MediaPost.
by Fern Siegel
MediPost Publications, New York
Aug. 30, 2006
Admit it--if you walked by a newsstand, you'd pick it up. So would
Carrie Nation. Even Lynne Cheney might give it a glance. That's what
catchy titles are all about--so outrageous, you can't turn away.
True, much of the pro-drinking prose results in a literary hangover,
but who could resist the cover line "Inebriated in Iran"? So throw a
few cubes into your highball--if it was good enough for Nick Charles,
it's good enough for you--and down Modern Drunkard. (And if you
don't know Nick Charles, you're in for a treat. Rent "The Thin Man,"
in which William Powell plays Nick Charles, the suave, cheeky 1930s
PI with panache--aided by enough gin, scotch and bourbon to keep the
Titanic afloat.)
Now, we're not suggesting that excess is laudable--or that MD appeals
to anyone other than males 18-to-25 who consider alcohol a second
career. True, Tennessee Williams and Eugene O'Neill produced great art,
but talent played a bigger role than Tanqueray. Yet MD capitalizes on
a renegade motif, film-noir design and a novel line when soliciting
subscriptions: "it's hip, it's dangerous, it'll fill your family with
dread." Especially if you're applying to law school.
Yet for a magazine that shows up on a New York newsstand, the ads
are parochial--all Denver-based. That's because the editorial staff,
which proudly claims a bar in the office, is on a perennial Rocky
Mountain high. Apparently, so is the sales team, whose inventory
extends to local pubs and the occasional attorney, no doubt suing
on behalf of the injured party in a bar brawl. Strangely, what you
won't find are liquor ads. What you will find is a poetry editor.
Submissions show up in "Postcards from Skid Row," where one
enterprising entrant wrote a haiku to Jack Daniels. It's Sylvia Plath
for barflies.
But first, it's necessary to plow through the frat-boy groaners, like
"The Wingman's Handbook," a salute to men who help their pal get the
girl. The wingman's job is to distract her friend so his buddy can
score. Of course, nine times out of 10 wingman and company aren't
wading in the deep end of the gene pool. And the women, far from
distractible, are tripping over each other in their race to the exit.
It's one thing to imagine a hot babe, a couple of Stolis and a night
of bliss. But it only counts if you don't have to put money on the
dresser.
However, MD understands brand identity, clearly reinforced with
merchandise, graphics and stories. Each piece has an alcohol link,
whether the subject is political, historic or cultural. For instance,
"FDR: Portrait of a Drinking President," salutes our most-esteemed
commander-in-chief for beating the Nazis, spearheading The New Deal
and repealing Prohibition, though MD would put axing Prohibition
ahead of Hitler. Yes, its priorities are screwy, but that's the point:
It's all about the booze.
Which is why MD notes FDR's love of hooch in detail. Many biographers
have written about his--and his sons'--drinking, so it's not a reach.
The article notes the real reason FDR legalized drink: the revenue.
Alcohol generated big bucks in state and federal tax dollars,
something Depression-era America desperately needed. Never mind that
after reading the newspaper--then and now--it's easy to see why gin
is considered a vitamin.
Similarly, "The Rise of the Dives" takes a socio-cultural look at
the working-class bar and its psychological significance to patrons
of all classes. The article quotes Jim Atkinson, who, in the book
The View from Nowhere, describes dives as a place of "transcendent
egalitarianism." Or, it could be a reaction to the Botox-obsessed,
hit-the-gym, fast-track lifestyle. Whatever else a dive is, it isn't
a place where fitness and drive reign. It is, in an odd way, authentic.
Still, one takes MD's wino wisdom, et. al. with a chaser, though I
agree with its purist approach to martinis: Gin. Vermouth. Olive.
Forget the peach gin or apple martinis or lemongrass vermouth. It would
be like Ann Coulter embracing Hillary Clinton; it's just not done.
Nor, despite evidence to the contrary, would a sane person touch
alcohol in Iran. The mullahs decreed that anyone caught drinking would
be subject to 40 lashes. It may be, as the writer of "Inebriated
in Iran" suggests, that the Armenian Christian minority and even a
few Muslims have their liquor connections. But is a Tuborg worth a
flogging? MD sticks to its credo, but fellas, there are limits. How
drunk do you have to be before the concept of whipped into shape
kicks in?
Fern Siegel is Deputy Editor of MediaPost.