Unfortunately, it turned out that �Bob� had given me a subscription to Maxim.
If you are unfamiliar with Maxim, it is a tawdry pulp mag proudly displayed at the counter of finer convenience stores throughout this great nation. The magazine looks like it is assembled by a crew of sexually-frustrated 12 year-olds. The �content� can be summarized as follows: pictures of semi-naked models in contrived, suggestive positions sandwiched between half-baked, ill-conceived articles. It�s a monthly Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, without any of those silly sports to get in the way.
Really, it�s not the soft-core porn-substitute that makes Maxim such a waste, it�s the lack of any kind of intellectual content or depth. Granted, not every magazine is New Republic (nor would we want that!), but come on guys! At least try to fill the pages with something marginally compelling! Every article is gimicky in one way or another. There is a �how to� section every month, in which readers are instructed �how to� handle any of a number of highly unlikely scenarios, such as the recent article on �how to� throw an orgy (assuming these readers ever meet any actual women). There�s a �first-person� section in which NBA point guards, and firemen, and car salesmen give you a first-hand perspective on their lives. This could be interesting if it weren�t always �as told to� another of Maxim�s crack reporters, leaving one with the impression that the whole piece was pretty much fabricated.
The photos, usually of models or B-grade actresses (think: cast of Coyote Ugly), are generally paired with a journalistic fluff piece. This often takes the form of a Q-and-A style interview session, in which the interviewer is usually so overcome by the presence of the model that he is unable to complete his own thoughts, assuming that he actually has some to begin with. This wide-eyed awe seems out of place next to the usual cocksure attitude that the magazine supposedly espouses.
What�s that stench, you ask? It must be the monthly token investigative journalism piece, which typically sticks to high heaven. Recently, Maxim ran an article on last year�s Russian submarine tragedy (extra points for timeliness). The reporter actually managed to gather some interesting information, but his execution was horrific! Using a sophomoric first-person narrative in an attempt to give the article some emotional immediacy backfired, of course (how could he expect us to believe that he knew what the crew was thinking and doing in their final moments?). And, the whole piece, like most of Maxim�s �true-life� stories, is awash in melodrama and hyperbole. Maxim makes Highlights Magazine for Children look highbrow.
Maxim ran an article earlier this year in which they tried (unsuccessfully, I think) to favorably compare themselves to the pulpy pinup magazines of the 1950�s. It�s unlikely that anyone will look back on Maxim in 50 years with a similar fondness. The 1950�s pinup magazines were a product of a sexually repressed post-war era, whereas Maxim is published in a (supposedly) more enlightened era. Furthermore, the retro appeal of the pinup magazines is their poor production values and the unselfconscious awkwardness of the titillating text, compared to Maxim�s big, dumb, glossy brashness.
Frankly, I�m ashamed to carry Maxim around. I was on an airplane with a copy of it, and the stewardess eyed me suspiciously, as though I was carrying hard-core porn. And it�s true I was connecting through Salt Lake City at the time, but still, you get the idea. Editorial claims aside, most women regard Maxim as either a triviality or an insult, as well they should. Reading Maxim is like accidentally walking into someone else�s frat-house stag party; I feel like I need a shower just extracting it from my mailbox.
The perplexing thing about Maxim is how well it sells. Maxim boasts of outselling GQ, Sports Illustrated, Rolling Stone and Esquire combined. How can this be possible? If you�ve read any of those magazines, you should be aware that Maxim couldn�t begin to approach their level of journalistic standards and overall quality in this or any other universe.
And maybe that�s the secret to their success. It�s sad to think, but perhaps that�s what American males want from a magazine. I have had more than one guy (never women) point to a copy of Maxim and say, �that�s the greatest magazine ever.� I would think, judging by the content and the child-like production (big, bright, and shiny being the design motif), that Maxim would only be perused by males experiencing the onset of puberty, that being the age where adult women seem mysterious and distant. Any male over the age of 21 who enjoys this crap should be embarrassed. So thanks for the present, �Bob,� but I�d rather not have you drag me down into your personal sewer.