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Clanton's Rant

Esquire's frantic pleas for renewal fall upon deaf ears.

by Clanton McNeese | 2005.03.29

“This is your last issue of Esquire,” announced the red headline on the blue background on the special cover that covered the real cover that featured a photograph of Benicio Del Toro wearing a black leather jacket. The words “last issue” were underlined in yellow. The special cover wrapped around to the back, where the promise was repeated below a stop sign that must have measured at least twelve square inches.

I figured this was a major development, given the evident concern on the part of the Esquire folks. They had fired off an arsenal of exclamation points to make it clear that I was a “preferred subscriber,” not just some ordinary joker, and they were offering to hook me up with 24 more issues for just $14.99, which works out to like nickels per week.

I do appreciate the solicitation, which I assume has the full support of everybody at the magazine from editor in chief David Granger right down to George Foreman, who is listed as “spiritual advisor.” But I’m passing on the “low renewal rate,” even though it’s the “best deal!” and saves me “82%!” if I say “Yes!” The problem is, I’ve got to say “No!” I’m sick of Esquire.

The magazine was okay to experience once in a while, like the marginally witty clerk at the hardware store. But then the clerk starts hanging out at your favorite bar, and he’s bending your ear once a week, and getting less and less amusing, and it turns out he’s a golfer who wants to tell you about the five iron he hit on that uphill dogleg, and he’s also an investor who wants to tell you about the killing me made on some pharmaceutical, and he’s also suddenly a single guy again who wants to tell you about his bitch of an ex-wife. So when he shakes your hand and says he’s moving to Decatur, Georgia, where he’s bought an interest in a car wash, well, you figure that even though the world is round, you probably won’t run into him again, and that’s all right.

Same thing with Esquire. The yearly Dubious Achievement Awards were always entertaining, and you could usually skim past the typical fashion crap and find a short story worth reading. The whole tone was casual and familiar, sort of locked into the past and easy to take. Esquire first came out in 1933, and, over the years, editors like Gordon Lish and Rust Hills could boast of publishing Hemingway, Nabokov, Roth, and DeLillo.

Today’s Esquire flails around, scrounging for an audience. Nearly every issue features a movie star on the cover and an adulatory article about said star. The shamelessly boot-licking take on Bill Murray: he’s a “way cool cat” who should win an Oscar. Between the covers, the advice never stops. Here’s what to wear, here’s what to eat, here’s what to drive. Here’s what to buy, buy, buy.

Esquire has gone beyond trendy. You know the editors spend every frantic second searching for the new and the now. “The New Yorker praised Arcade Fire? We’d best hop on that bandwagon.” My last issue contained a little poker lesson and a Q and A with Lewis Black. My last issue also included the first annual “Esky Music Awards,” I swear to god. Did the awards folks mention the Arcade Fire? They did. Did they actually set up an NCAA tournament-style bracket sheet to determine by popular vote the best band in the world? They did that too. All eyes are on the 5-6 match-up between Destiny’s Child and Modest Mouse.

At one time, Esquire must have meant something to at least a few editors and writers and more than a few readers. Now it’s merely one more Hearst product that I won’t miss. But I know they’ll miss me, and I’m sorry about that. I can, however, recommend a potential substitute subscriber. There’s this guy down in Decatur.

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