Numbering these instead of titling them has removed a lot of stress from life. I’m joking (sort of) but truly, headline copywriting has never been my strong suit, though not for lack of trying.
A lifetime ago, I worked at a monthly regional arts magazine. It was as close to a dream job as I’d ever imagined at that point in my life. Basically we could do whatever we wanted, and I had access to a lot of things I wouldn’t have otherwise. Half – actually probably more than half – of my adult education about fine arts and fine dining came from that short period of my life when I got invited to things I really had no business attending. I just faked it ‘til I made it, essentially. And all those free tickets and comped drinks made up for the fact that I was being paid sweet-fuck-all dollars per year to do it.
In a small city with two city magazines you’re going to have a big dog and an underdog. We were the underdog. This was mostly because our owner and cofounder was a crazy hoarder person in ersatz “businessman” drag who picked his teeth with a business card at meetings. As far as I could tell his primary job responsibilities included being a cheapskate and constantly shooting himself – and by extension, all of us – in the foot.
Every year the city press club awards were a chance for us to feel better about ourselves. We usually won a few awards – for photography, restaurant reviews, arts features. At some point, however, I became obsessed with winning Best Headline and I entered several of ours each year.
The reason for my obsession was that the bar seemed very low. None of the “winning” headlines were very clever at all. Surely my Very Big Brain could scoop up a few easy wins! How about the article on cheeseboards, upon which I bestowed “Come to Cheeses”? Or the headline that accompanied a dramatic photo of a shirtless and chiseled male ballet dancer, “Beaut Strength”??!?!
I am not saying these were genius, but they were certainly better than an article about wine titled “Grape Expectations,” which bested both of my entries. I will be angry about fucking GRAPE EXPECTATIONS until the day I die. Who made this decision! Did they know what jokes are? There is no explanation that would suffice.
There are a lot of stories about that magazine that you would not believe. It remains the single strangest place I have ever worked. It is the only job where I regularly got mail from incarcerated people. It is also the only job where I kept a bottle of brandy under my desk. In some ways, I am glad it doesn’t exist anymore; that way it can just be mine forever.