IRT Magazine

So I watched an episode of that show on MTV where a buncha tools compete for a gig at Rolling Stone.  The blond chick who looks like Joss Stone was kind of hot, but other than that, I am almost certain that both Ralph Gleason and Hunter S. Thompson are spinning in their graves over the fact that this once mighty voice in alternative American journalism has sunk to these depths.

For those of us who have had guys like Joe Levy and Nathan Brackett ignore our emails and delete our resumes in hopes of obtaining an actual writing job at Rolling Stone, allow me to say how sickening it was to watch these complete morons fuck up interviews, blow off deadlines and stammer around the RS office blurting out stupid shit like that douchebag Russell.  Especially considering that the strong majority of these contestants cannot even write.

Maybe the IRT should pitch MTV an equally enaging reality TV show about what it’s really like to be a struggling rock journo out there in the cold, hard world, where publicists constantly lie in your ear and talk shit behind your back and glossy mag editors gas you up for future collaborations and then ignore your follow-up inquiries in favor of the guy who has no fucking clue as to who Band of Horses are, but has a cute limey accent and is easy to deal with. 

Nah, that wouldn’t work.  Hey, how about this concept:  Let’s get Henry Owings from Chunklet, Richard Meltzer and the ghost of Lester Bangs to mentor these same contestants on this show instead of Jenny Eliscu and Brian Hiatt and watch and laugh as they roast their cornball asses over a hot open fire stoked by old copies of Trouser Press and the NY Rocker.  Then send them on assignment to interview J. Mascis and try to get enough quotables for a 25,000 word piece, only after forcing them to produce a buyer’s guide to the catalog of the Red Krayola written completely in prime numbers. 

The winner shall receive a year-long internship here at the Tribune, where their day-to-day duties will include choking down jars of pickled herring, start random fights with people at Mars Bar, picking the worms out of my friend’s cat’s butt with their teeth and trying to convince the publicists at Rhino Records, Judy at Motormouth Media and that dude from Narnack who told me to stick my magazine up my dick that I really am a nice enough guy.

You think that would fly?

Ed.