Month: April 2001

There is no justice in the world. It’s bad enough that I have penned this column for decades — it certainly seems that way — in exchange for a mere pittance month after month. Readers, I do not exaggerate. My W-2 form actually lists “A Mere Pittance” under “wages, tips, and other compensation.” Who knew it was an actual payroll term?

What’s more, during the production of this 25th anniversary issue, I have waited ever-so-patiently for the editors to come downstairs to my basement cubicle and seek my counsel about which of my many, many fine columns they planned to reprint this month. Just yesterday, though, I discovered they had no plans to reprint a single one of them! (“As soon as you start writing a decent column,” snipped my publisher, “then we’ll consider reprinting them.”)

And to rub even more salt in the wound, instead of my usual enchanting discourses on the cares and concerns of our readers — what happened to this, what’s the meaning of that? — I have been commanded to devote this month’s entire column to various questions and queries that have been raised now and then about the history of this publication.

So let’s get this over with so I can go back to sulking:

What was the original name of Memphis magazine?

Volume 1, Number 1 first appeared on the newsstands carrying the title City of Memphis magazine. There had recently been a Memphis magazine, produced by the local Chamber of Commerce, which had met an untimely end in 1973. Not wanting to be tarred with the same brush, the Founding Fathers chose the City of Memphisname instead.

In fact, we scrounged around in our “files” (actually, piles of battered shoeboxes) and found the original mock-up of our very first cover (see below). For reasons no one can remember, we ultimately used a considerably older Ed Crump on the April 1976 cover.

The brand-new City of Memphis offered much interesting fare, such as “A Conversation with Boss Crump,” “An Insider’s Guide to Memphis,” and an editorial by attorney Lucius Burch, identified as “a champion of worthwhile causes.” Now which one would you pick up, standing in line at Seessel’s with your arms filled with six-packs and Little Debbie snack cakes? In fact, 25 years later, that first issue is still full of good stories. It’s definitely on my to-read list, any day now, just as soon as I get through my stack of Seventeens.

The stigma of the earlier failed Memphis finally passed by the way, and this publication dropped that City of in April 1978 (above right). It’s a good name, we think. We’ll probably stick with it for another 25 years or so.

City of MemphisWho has been featured on the cover more than anyone else?

Oh, that’s an easy one. The King of Rock-and-Roll is King of Memphis, with Elvis Presley appearing on the covers of 10 issues since 1976. If you count a related story about former wife Priscilla, then the residents of Graceland were honored on 11 covers — and those are cover stories, you understand. We’re not even counting the half-dozen other times we’ve run a picture of Elvis on the cover, or just mentioned him, in a shameless attempt to boost sales.

Runner-up, with three covers so far, is a tie: our favorite East High alum, Cybill Shepherd, and the mysterious Dr. Lancelot Bueno, with three each.

What was the largest, fattest, thickest issue ever produced?

The very first magazines were rather lean, that’s for sure. In fact, our premiere issue was just 44 pages. But we had reached our stride by the mid-1980s, producing whopping tomes that strained the backs of even the hardiest mail carriers. The thickest issue so far is August 1988, with 272 pages. Though records are scanty from that period, I’m told that particular “City Guide” generated $43.75 in advertising revenues — after deducting staff expenses like pencils, paper, biscuits, and cheap liquor.

Is it true the first art director now works for Rolling Stone?

Technically, no. Jack Atkinson was listed on the masthead as “design director” for the first issue only. After that, the credit for the magazine design went to “Jack Apple Graphics,” though most of the actual work, so I’m told, was being performed by an Apple employee, a young fellow from Mississippi by the name of Fred Woodward. Fred officially became art director in September 1976, a position he held until May 1980, when our very talented Murry Keith took over. After stints at D magazine in Dallas and Texas Monthly in Austin, Fred joined the staff of Rolling Stone, where he’s art director. Under his direction, Rolling Stone has won more design awards than any magazine in the United States. We like to think it’s all because of us.

Tell the truth. What’s the worst story you’ve ever run?

I’ll have you know that in 25 years we have never published anything that didn’t stand the test of time, set new standards, push the envelope, and all sorts of other clichés.

Well, that’s not quite true. Some of the pieces we published surely had merit when we assigned them, but a few of them today do seem a trifle stale. My own recommendations for least-compelling stories would have to include:

¥ “West Memphis: More Than a Truck Stop?”

¥ “Sludge: The $400 Million Gamble” (May 1979)

¥ “A Paraguayan Holiday” (April 1981)

¥ “Minerva Johnican’s Amazing Comeback” (March 1984)

¥ “What’s New in Running Gear” (July/August 1985)

¥ “Dream Cars” (October 1991)

No, I’m not making these up. Furthermore, as proof of our continuing ability to explore the critically important issues of the day — during October, anyway — I submit the following series as Exhibits A, B, C, and D:

¥ “Rating the Imported Beers” (October 1978)

¥ “Rating the Imported Beers II” (October 1980)

¥ “The Great American Beer Taste-off” (October 1981)

¥ “Rating the Imported Beers” (October 1984).

Finally, what did the “MM” in MM Corporation stand for?

Uh, it stood for Memphis Magazine. These days, though, the company is called Contemporary Media, Inc.

Inc. stands for “incorporated,” in case you were stumped by that, too.

[“Ask Vance” appears every month in Memphis magazine. Got a question for Vance? Send it to “Ask Vance” at Memphis magazine, P.O. Box 1738, Memphis, TN 38101, or e-mail him at askvance@memphismagazine.com]

GAY PAREE«

PARIS, TN — Amid the usual floats and beauty queens, politicians and would-be political candidates, clowns and horses, Cherry Jones came back to her hometown Friday as the grand marshal of the 48th Annual Grand Parade of the World’s Biggest Fish Fry.

The Tony-award winning actress returned to Paris for what should have been a triumphant day, but as with most interactions between Jones and Paris, things went a little awry. As soon as the New York actress was announced as the grand marshal, talk of “inappropriate lifestyles” and boycotts ensued.

Besides being an award-winning actress, Jones is an out-of-the-closet lesbian, a fact which plays better on Broadway than it does in this community of 12,000. When the local newspaper reprinted a New York Times article several years ago in which the actress talked openly of her “life cohort” Mary O’Connor, a fire storm of controversy ensued. Ground zero for the debate was the letters-to-the-editor page of the local paper — the same place that the latest controversy erupted.

“When I heard they had chosen a professing homosexual to be the grand marshal of our parade, I couldn’t believe it,” read one of the letters, “. . . to have her here for all of us to clap and cheer for is wrong.”

But after all the bluster, the Fish Fry parade went on as it has for the past 48 years. Tradition won out over traditional family values. And Cherry Jones, who has been called “the greatest actress working on the American stage today,” smiled throughout.

Next stop for Jones is a movie shooting in North Carolina. She co-stars with Ellen Burstyn, Sandra Bullock, and Ashley Judd. How that compares with being grand marshal of the World’s Biggest Fish Fry Grand Parade, Jones is too gracious to say.

PLAYING THE NAME GAME

I guess now that he is gone to the NFL, its too late to begin a campaign to educate Memphis sports fans (and reporters) on the correct pronunciation of ex-Tiger free safety Idrees Bashir. But, for those who want to know, his name is pronounced “e-drees” with the accent on the second syllable.

How do I know? I asked Bashir, who was drafted in the second round by Indianapolis last week. It is a habit I developed after learning that former Tiger quarterback Q’dry Anderson had suffered in silence while his name was constantly mispronounced — by coaches, teammates, and radio and TV announcers.

I was writing a profile for a game program during Anderson’s senior season. I had always wondered how in the world a name spelled “Q’dry” could be pronounced “cod-ry,” which is how everyone said it, at least in part, because that was how the Memphis media guide had it. So I asked Anderson, “What does your mother call you?’

He looked sheepish before answering, “k-dree.”

So, remember, if anyone asks, Bashir’s name is “e-drees,” not “eye-drees.”

IS THIS NEWS?

It has become so commonplace that no one pays any attention to it anymore, but the widespread habit of providing plugs for network programs during the local TV news is truly shameful. The worst offenders are the CBS affiliates plugging Survivor, but they all do it. The sad thing is, we have been conditioned not to expect anything better from TV news. With sweeps upon us, look for the TV news rooms to become more shrill.

QUOTE OF THE WEEK:

“To beat the rush, here’s a proposal for how the XFL’s tombstone should read: ‘It’s the game, stupid.’” — Jim Litke, AP Sports Writer, on the expected demise of the Xtreme Football League.

A few weeks ago, I spent my entire weekend at Jillian’s. I only went home to eat and sleep, shower, change my clothes, get prettied up again, walk my dog, read a book, watch WB TV shows I taped off Channel 24 late night throughout the week, and do four loads of laundry. Other than that, though, I was at Jillian’s the entire time. I never ate there — having learned last year from Chicago’s ESPNZone that is’ more fun to spend your money on the games than the grub — but I did have several beers (I was there almost 48 hours) and played so many mind games I wondered if I was turning into a boy (that might be unfair, but I’m not retracting).

At any rate, Friday night my friend and I walked in and made a beeline for the skeeball. Why? Because I love skeeball and have ever since Chuck E. Cheese brought its ballpit playground and animatronic dinner theater to my backyard. And because I’m not good at many things, I think I can afford to brag: skeeball is my game, yo.

Turned out to be my friend’s game, too, even moreso than mine. Soon tickets were flowing like the Mississippi after a hard rain and we became hooked, going from game to game, scamming for tickets.

We played basketball, found out that we sucked so much we would never win any tickets there, and didn’t play that again. Same thing with the rifle-firing range (and usually I’m so good with guns). But if we weren’t getting tickets, we weren’t interested.

So there we were, walking around with streamers of tickets hanging out of our jeans pockets and Jillian’s employees kept asking us if we wanted to trade them in for a voucher. But that’s no fun, walking around with a receipt. You win tickets so other people can see you’ve won tickets. It’s cool (not to mention that several people saw all of our tickets and gave us theirs).

But maybe it wasn’t as cool as we thought. People, mostly girls (and I could be making this up, because I’m paranoid, but I don’t think so), kept looking at us funny, as if the whole point of Jillian’s wasn’t to play games, and win tickets, and overstimulate all your senses. Although I don’t know what else it would be — fighting the crowd at the bar and drinking yourself into a stupor?

We ended up walking out of there with stamp rings, slinkies, fake tattoos, whoopee cushions, fuzzy pens, bubbles, and bottle openers Not a bad way to end an evening (I can think of others, but as it was, I was happy). The next night was sort of a let-down. Mostly because I already had all the prizes that I wanted and there didn’t seem to be any reason to win tickets. Instead, I played car games and air hockey and virtual bowling (but not basketball). And it was fun, but it wasn’t a rip-roaring, rollicking good time. Something was missing.

Which brings me to a side story. My gym, which shall remain nameless because I sweat there, started an incentive program that basically amounts to a kindergarden star chart. Every time you work out, you give yourself a dot on a chart on the wall. After so many workouts, you win a tee-shirt.

Now I do not want a tee-shirt. Let’s be honest, unless it’s sleeveless and skims my navel, I’m not interested. But even taking that into account, I became obsessed with the whole program. I rearranged my schedule; I went to the gym whenever possible. And I’m proud to say that this week I finished.

Okay, actually, as of this writing, I’m not quite done. I have one workout left. But I will finish. Oh yes, if by Sunday, the last day of the program, I haven’t gotten my last dot and I am on my deathbed, fever of 107 degrees, mucus oozing out every pore, I will somehow stagger onto the treadmill (actually, if I were on my deathbed, I would go to the gym, put my dot on the wall, and then slink back to bed. And I have very high morals, this is how important this is to me).

The sad part is that somewhere along the way It stopped being about physical fitness. It was all about the dot. (Actually it was also sorta about trying to look like Lara Croft before the movie comes out. People have told me before that I bear a passing resemblance to Angelina Jolie — you know if I’m in a very dim room, and I turn my head 45 degrees to the left, and do a sort of surly face, I’m a dead ringer.) I figured if I could kick up the gym-going a notch, people would start mistaking me for her at restaurants and I’d get all the good tables — not that I really know what a “good” table is — and everyone would fall in love with me and life would be grand. But because that goal is a tad unrealistic, it was more about the dots.) That’s even how I thought of it: I’m going to the gym to get my dot.

This is all to say, never underestimate the power of incentives. Oh, and that the next time I go to Jillian’s (probably this weekend. I can’t seem to stay away — I think I may have been hypnotized by all the flashing lights), I’m going to win all the tickets I can and I’m going to wave them in people’s faces if they look at me funny. And then I’m going to redeem every single one of them. (The tickets, that is; not the people. I’m certainly no Billy Graham).

But I don’t plan on doing that because I want people to look at me, or think that I’m some sort of skeeball master (although they wouldn’t be wrong in thinking that), but because I like having something to show for what I do, whether it’s tickets, or check marks, or even . . . free tee-shirts.

I might never wear it, but at least I’ll know that I earned it.

( Mary Cashiola writes about life every Friday @ memphisflyer.com. You’re invited to come along.)