If anyone even noticed the recent small news stories that Boston Magazine had changed hands, their first thought most likely was:
“Boston Magazine? Is it really still in business? You gotta be kidding me, right?”
The “magazine,” or what little remained of it, was acquired by The Boston Globe, a “newspaper,” or what little remains of it.
In the press release, the trophy-wife owner of the Globe announced that, “We feel an immense responsibility to honor and preserve Boston Magazine’s legacy.”
Such somber pronouncements are usually followed with: “Visiting hours from 3-5 and 7-9.”
The owner of the failed magazine, one David Lipson, was quoted as saying:
“The timing was just right for us to make the sale.”
Surely he meant to say, the timing was just right for us to pull the plug.
I go back a long way with Boston Magazine, to the days when it was a real thing. The owner then was Herb Lipson, David’s father, who knew how to run successful magazines, even if he was a little rough around the edges.
Herb had only one requirement for all his publications — hot-looking babes on the cover every month, no matter what the subject. Lipson instinctively understood that cheesecake moved product off the newsstands, back when there were newsstands.
One of the early editors told me how he once brought Herb a mock-up of the next month’s cover, featuring the usual scantily-clad cupcake with a balcony you could do Shakespeare on.
The editor was very proud of his front page. But Herb just scowled and finally threw the galley down on his desk.
“Don’t you understand?” he yelled at the editor. “I don’t want sex on the cover. I want WET SEX on the cover!”
Those were the days. The December issue ran close to 400 pages. I wrote the monthly politics column. I was hired by an alumnus of the National Lampoon. My droll pieces would get mentioned by George V. Higgins’ in his Lit’ry Life magazine column in the Globe.
I thought I’d hit the big time, for $250 a month.
I even won a National Magazine Award, back when media awards meant something other than fealty to the Ministry of Truth.
The publishers’ association treated us to a big luncheon at the Waldorf-Astoria. The actual award was a beyond-hideous modern sculpture called an “Ellie.”
For years, the grotesque trophy was prominently displayed in the lobby. It puzzled visitors, and frightened children.
If BoMag is remembered for anything now, it’s for the “Best of Boston” awards. In the beginning, they were the “Best and Worst of Boston.” Needless to say, it was the “worst” that made them such an entertaining read every August.
We used to have a boozy dinner in the spring to settle scores and plot who would get what. I was there mainly for the “Worsts.” I remember one suburban steakhouse, I think it was called “Le Bifteque” or something. As The Worst, it was dubbed “Le Pits.”
We had fun with those awards. For example, it seemed that half the old guys in Boston were collecting shady pensions from City Hall. In their dotage, a lot of these hacks were writing silly columns for crappy neighborhood newspapers.
So one year I came up with, “Best and Worst Columnists Under Investigation by the Boston Retirement Board.”
You learned a lot about human nature, working on those Best and Worst Awards. First thing I figured out was, if you ever arrange it for somebody to get a “Best” — or any other nice thing — don’t expect any thanks or gratitude.
The recipient invariably figures that it was God’s will that he should be recognized and get to hang that august honor in the front window of his lousy ad agency or greasy spoon.
The other thing I learned is that when somebody got a “Worst” award, they would go to the ends of the earth to identify who in the room had been responsible for the hit, and then vow eternal revenge.
The big problem for Herb, of course, was that no recipients of a “worst” would ever buy an ad in the magazine. So the “Worst” half of “Best and Worst” was eliminated. Nothing was never the same. Even a Globe commenter mentioned it last week on the message board.
At the end, BoMag would run endless lists of various “bests” and “tops” in every imaginable category. By a strange coincidence, a huge percentage of the winners had also bought display ads in the magazine.
Did you read last week about the lawyer in Providence whose downtown office was raided by the FBI? He was slobberingly described in the Globe as the first gay, former illegal alien judge in Rhode Island. He wears loud bow ties and proudly displays a backstage photo taken in Vegas of himself with Jennifer Lopez. He lives with his husband in a posh suburb.
After the raid, I checked out his law firm’s web site. This was the first award he listed:
“Boston Magazine Top Lawyers 2021 Immigration.”
Yeah, it figures. Absolutely.
Back in the day, I would have nominated that guy for one of our awards — Worst Gay Illegal Alien Lawyer in Rhode Island in a Photo Finish with a Grand Jury…
I suppose there’s some synergy, as they say, between BoMag — or should I call it “NoMag?” — and its new owner, the Globe.
To cite just one example, both failing tracts worship Monica Cannon-Grant, the obese racial arsonist who briefly — allegedly — worked her local BLM franchise into a multi-million-dollar grift, preying on trust-funded, menopausal suburban hausfraus.
The Globe named her a Bostonian of the Year.
Simultaneously, BoMag anointed her as one of the “100 Most Influential Bostonians.”
Ah, the unerring instinct of regime-controlled media. After her prestigious awards, Cannon-Grant was soon indicted on 27 counts of corruption and welfare fraud. She goes on trial in October, just after the Best of Boston party, assuming there will still be one now.
Now that BoMag is for all intents and purposes defunct, as an alumnus I have just one request. Surely the Globe has no need for that “coveted” Ellie trophy, considering who won it for them.
Whoever the executors of the magazine’s estate are, I humbly petition them to allow me to take possession of the “Ellie.” I promise to place it in a prominent position in my office. I plan to use it as a hat rack… for my red MAGA cap.
Every day, my treasured Ellie will remind me of those forgotten, long-ago days when Boston Magazine meant something and was not… Le Pits.