Nov. 6: A plain brown wrapper
I used to subscribe to Mad Magazine, which arrived every month in a
plain brown wrapper. Later, I learned that the plain brown wrappers were
usually reserved for girlie magazines like Playboy. It felt scandalous.
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I discovered Mad when I was in Grade 4 and recovering from a bout of carbon monoxide poisoning. I'd spotted Mad Zaps the Human Race in the neighbourhood 7-Eleven and begged my father to buy it for me. It launched a love affair with Mad Magazine that lasted into my early 20s. (The publisher, William M Gaines, died in 1992 and Mad has grown increasingly sleazier and more irrelevant since his passing.)
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I became a subscriber to Mad when I was in the fifth grade. I read the first issue while vacationing with my family. I remember that issue's cover showed Alfred E Newman waiting in a veterinarian's office with a cooked ham on his lap. The inside included a parody of Scarface.
If I could do my life over again, I would have ignored Mad. Mad made me a wiseass. Here is how it accomplished that:
1. I would read Mad Magazine.
2. I would laugh at Mad Magazine.
3. I would read letters from celebrities, who'd been lampooned in previous editions of Mad, congratulating Mad's writers and artists for a job well done.
4. I would come to the conclusion that people enjoy being made fun of.
5. I would make fun of my classmates, thinking they enjoyed it.
6. I would discover I was wrong.
I was too dumb to understand that there's a difference between being a successful millionaire professional movie star and being a dory awkward 12-year-old. The former enjoys being parodied because they know that they are not the super beings that the media insists they are. When Mad brings them back to Earth, they are not just amused, they are grateful.
Dorky 12-year-olds think everyone else is cooler than they are anyway. Trust me, they don't want to be parodied. They want to be liked. They want to be respected.
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There was a time, in my early adolescence, when I had some Playboy magazines hidden in the woodpile behind the house. I could show my dad the Mad Magazines but I wouldn't dare show him the Playboys. But now, in retrospect, I wonder if the Mads did me more harm.
I was 10 when I had those Playboys. I flipped through them not out of lust but out of curiosity. Those grownup naked girls were as scary as monsters. Their very nakedness was as threatening as a punch to the head. I'd have nothing to say to those naked girls if I met them in real life.
Playboy bores me. So does Mad. Literature is more exciting and nudity is only provocative when it's for one set of eyes alone.
-
I discovered Mad when I was in Grade 4 and recovering from a bout of carbon monoxide poisoning. I'd spotted Mad Zaps the Human Race in the neighbourhood 7-Eleven and begged my father to buy it for me. It launched a love affair with Mad Magazine that lasted into my early 20s. (The publisher, William M Gaines, died in 1992 and Mad has grown increasingly sleazier and more irrelevant since his passing.)
-
I became a subscriber to Mad when I was in the fifth grade. I read the first issue while vacationing with my family. I remember that issue's cover showed Alfred E Newman waiting in a veterinarian's office with a cooked ham on his lap. The inside included a parody of Scarface.
If I could do my life over again, I would have ignored Mad. Mad made me a wiseass. Here is how it accomplished that:
1. I would read Mad Magazine.
2. I would laugh at Mad Magazine.
3. I would read letters from celebrities, who'd been lampooned in previous editions of Mad, congratulating Mad's writers and artists for a job well done.
4. I would come to the conclusion that people enjoy being made fun of.
5. I would make fun of my classmates, thinking they enjoyed it.
6. I would discover I was wrong.
I was too dumb to understand that there's a difference between being a successful millionaire professional movie star and being a dory awkward 12-year-old. The former enjoys being parodied because they know that they are not the super beings that the media insists they are. When Mad brings them back to Earth, they are not just amused, they are grateful.
Dorky 12-year-olds think everyone else is cooler than they are anyway. Trust me, they don't want to be parodied. They want to be liked. They want to be respected.
-
There was a time, in my early adolescence, when I had some Playboy magazines hidden in the woodpile behind the house. I could show my dad the Mad Magazines but I wouldn't dare show him the Playboys. But now, in retrospect, I wonder if the Mads did me more harm.
I was 10 when I had those Playboys. I flipped through them not out of lust but out of curiosity. Those grownup naked girls were as scary as monsters. Their very nakedness was as threatening as a punch to the head. I'd have nothing to say to those naked girls if I met them in real life.
Playboy bores me. So does Mad. Literature is more exciting and nudity is only provocative when it's for one set of eyes alone.
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