On The Cover of The Rolling Stone

Posted: September 7, 2013 by generationgbooks in Music
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HAX8D00ZThe year was 1984.  February, 1984, to be exact. I had just turned 11. I was still in some case of trivial tug-of-war with my little Duranie heart- John or Simon? That continues to this day. However, my 11-year old heart went into overdrive when I spotted this in the magazine rack at Spring Forest (I think we were calling it Rudy’s at that point, but I may be mixing the deli of my young dreams up with another Willow Springs landmark that had my little chubby tummy humming with joy at the thought of delicious, unlimited meats and cheeses).

I honestly have no recollection how much Rolling Stone was at this point in its history; but likely, it was still too much for what I was getting as an allowance at that point. I remember crying like an overgrown pig denied his mayo, in the middle of the deli, and my mom beating my ass out of embarrassment.  I really was a spoiled brat when Duran Duran were involved in any way. I think the only other time I threw such a little sissypants tantrum was when I was begging for extra allowance so I could buy that purple Michael Jackson purse. I remember clutching the magazine and that overweight warthog Josette who worked the front counter giving me the old stinkeye (as if anyone in Willow Springs (besides me) would be weeping over this periodical). My mom said she would consider it. I did my academic best and got a shitload of A’s on papers and she caved. Remember, my mom was into Duran Duran as much as I, except for Nick Rhodes, who she said “looks like a woman”, among other unflattering comments.  I went back a week later, and it was SOLD OUT. The warthog informed me they wouldn’t be getting any other copies. The hunt began.

I tried Dominick’s, K-mart, Venture, Zayre, Jewel-Osco, and any other fucking place I could obtain magazines. No luck. It was sold out everywhere. Crazy thing is, turns out there must have been more Duranies than I had counted on. I was shit out of luck, and heartbroken. I didn’t collect magazines so much back then, as I did buy them so I could rip the posters out and change my walls up every week. As I have stated in previous blogs, my mom always enjoyed that. My brother, who shared my room and did NOT share my love of all things English New Wave music, did not. I also had to have the magazine, not only because the cover of the Rolling Stone was still a big deal back then, but because of the byline. THE FAB FIVE, a take off of the Beatles being called The Fab Four. On principle of being a gigantic Beatles fan and hoping Duran would be around and legendary in their own right for many years, I had to own this magazine. I wrote to the magazine begging for a copy of the magazine, and enclosed all the change I owned, to secure a copy. I got a letter weeks later with a check in my name, saying that at the current time no more copies were being printed. Denied again. And not only that, but what dumb fuck kid would send all her pennies and quarters into the office of the magazine, thinking they would send me a copy? Youthful ignorance. The fact that my mom helped me seal the manila envelope (while snickering, now that I recall) makes me think she was aiding and abetting this nonsense further.

Years go by, and in 1989, I attend some sort of record convention with Jennie. What do I find? A copy of the infamous magazine! I paid $14.00 for the magazine, as it was in pristine shape, in plastic, and I didn’t give two shits what I had to pay. My only other encounter with this magazine was when I borrowed Heidi’s library card and found a destroyed old copy at the Alsip Library. I did read it, I did caress the pages and blow kisses to the pictures, but it was not mine- I could only sit there and swoon for hours. I still had to have my own copy; my bloodlust never abated in pursuit of this.  I was not meant to quiver with joy over the copy I had just obtained for very long. I got the first copy in February, 1989, and it went into that little closed off room upstairs at the old house- it was all Duran. The room was ceiling to floor Duran, and when I wasn’t working at Phar-Mor or going to school, I was stuck in there spinning vinyl for the 100th time on the awesome retro record player/8 track stereo system my Aunt Colleen had gifted me with. On Christmas night in 1990, I had plugged my stereo in and heard what sounded like a small spark. I ignored it and went downstairs. Within minutes, the entire upstairs was on fire. It had sparked a bad outlet which set off electrical mayhem, and we got out and went to stay with Pothead Bob and his mom. The only things lost in that fire? Everything I owned..including the records, the CD’s, the posters, the painting and drawings that our friend Elena had done for me of the cover of Notorious, my grade school diplomas, all my pictures and keepsakes, everything. I was gutted. And so was my bedroom. Eventually we got the whole upstairs redone, but I was done. I moved back downstairs and let my brother and sister take the rooms up there when it was redone. I was, and remain to this day, heartbroken over losing all that irreplaceable shit. The stuff I could replace, I began to, in earnest.

Copy 2 of the magazine was obtained at Tower Records with Disco Chuck in 1992. This wasn’t meant to be long for my holding. My fucking dog ate it. I’m not kidding, unfortunately. There was nothing that Cuckoo wouldn’t wolf down, including the Rolling Stone. I came home from Caesar’s one day, and it was in tatters. She was a puppy, so I didn’t hold it against her because she was a sweetheart, and she looked cowed when I let out that wild midget grief howl that came out when I saw what was left. Copy 3 was years later, with Heidi, at the ARC record show. The dirty rotten record vendor who was trading with Jennie and years later broke into their house and stole priceless vinyl, had a whole bin of “collectible” magazines. Yes, there it was. Heidi was and remains my good luck charm with finding things. It wasn’t in fantastic shape, but nothing that jagoff sold, really was. I was at the point that I didn’t give a fuck if it looked like  he wiped his nose with it, as long as it was intact. It was, and his worthless ass was charging $20.00 for it. I really wanted to buy that Duran Duran laserdisc (Laugh. You should), but I put it away on the shelf to get the magazine. Heidi and I went back to the house and worshipped properly. I don’t think it was a “Duran altar” occasion, but it may have been. Old age gives and takes its memories with impudence.

I’m not a huge collector of magazines, but there are the oddities in my collection, that I went to hell and back to obtain. For the reasons above, it meant the world to me to have a copy of that magazine in my collection.  It’s not so I could sell it later, or brag to my other Duranies who haven’t been able to find a copy (there are a few who threaten me because I have it in my possession), or just to have something to write about. It’s a piece of who I am, and one of the few things in life that I still do enjoy, and there’s no price or time limit that you can put on something that really has a place in your heart.

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