Typically, my first social media posts of the day are upbeat. Hopefully, they inspire, inform, or make someone chuckle. This morning, however, I don’t want to make anyone chuckle. I want to break things. Because I’m angry. Very angry.
Seeing the cover of Rolling Stone magazine in my friend, talented interior designer and blogger, Erin Gates’s feed with her pointed commentary that putting a young terrorist on the cover of a rock magazine, hair askew and stoner expression, makes him look like– duh, guys– a rockstar, made me nauseous. I refuse to share the image here; I’ve linked to the story on the Boston Globe’s Web site. No doubt you’ve seen it already, and I am too irate. I imagine myself doing wholly unyogic, bat shit crazy things, to the offices of the money-hungry morons who made the socially irresponsible artistic direction decision to glamorize a sociopath who caused four deaths and more than 200 severe injuries to innocent people on Patriot’s Day and one of my favorite days of the year, Marathon Monday, in my favorite city on the planet.
So, here it is… Dear Rolling Stone, you are despicable, and I will not read the article. I will not buy your magazine. I will not even read the copies at the gym when I am desperate for a little pick-me-up on the elliptical machine. I haven’t worked directly in the magazine or advertising industries for many years, but if I ever run a business, work for a business, or associate my image with a brand that has advertising dollars to spend to reach your demographic, I will recommend that it does not spend those dollars with you.
If you want to glamorize anything from that day, from my city, from my home, take a cue from my former workplace, Boston magazine, where I worked as its senior marketing manager for several years, which pulled a ready-for-press cover in the hours following the bombing and instead conceived, organized, shot, and published this:
Take a cue from humanity, decency, courage not cowardice, and my city’s need to heal and move forward, especially its victims learning to do so without loved ones or limbs, with compromised hearing in their ears, nightmares when they sleep, and that bristly feeling many of us still get when we hear too many sirens sounding too close together.
Actually… nevermind, Rolling Stone. You do whatever you want. You obviously don’t get it.
My hope and prayer is that someday you will.