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An Open Letter to My Favorite Periodical

Dear Esquire,

Long time reader, first time griper. Ever since opening my first copy in my childhood dentist's waiting room, I have been a firm believer that Esquire is the one, true authority for men with regards to fashion, food and foxy ladies. So much so, in fact, that I will personally thank Esquire on my tombstone. This is done in part because your magazine helped me pick out the gravesite that will attract the most single women.

Your most recent issue, however, has put me in quite the moral quandary regarding your magazine's capacity to accurately judge what constitutes "manliness."

In an article titled "10 Trends to Steal from Fashion Week," you run down the essential points that American men should take from European stylists. These include: Shortened, blue blazers, shiny tuxedos, mesh tops, and tribal print.

What the hell, Esquire? It's like you want me to get run out of town by angry villagers like I'm Frankenstein's monster or Keith Olbermann. What happened to the Esquire that mocked these highfalutin fashionistas and then insisted that the three simple keys to happiness were a three piece suit, a black turtleneck and a pair of wingtips?

Your insistance on yellow corduroy is the breaking point. Unless you're a child's teddy bear looking for a jaunty new look, that fabric is indefensible.

These suggestions have made me highly skeptical of any future opinions voiced about fashion and manliness in general. I've been thrown into a Jeremiad of alpha males and Omega watches.

Esquire used to be a paradigm of proactive ruggedness. It felt like course reading for a double major in Studliness and Virility. Now, it seems that you are trying to turn Joe Average into a Mancy boy by breeding a new generation of color blind, semi-formal troglodytes. Maybe Henry Miller was right: all the good men died in the first World War. Or at least they vanished after Fashion Week became synonymous with shore leave.

Had this been published in Men's Health, I would permit this flaw. That magazine has long since jumped the elliptical machine. But not Esquire. I hold you to a higher, studlier standard. I have always posited myself a would-be John Irving, however there were two main obstacles to this aspiration: I didn't go to Exeter and I didn't lose my virginity to an older woman. But thanks to Esquire I feel like I have accomplished both with aplomb.

Your magazine is the surrogate father I never had. You were the one that convinced me that denim on denim is a bad look unless you're Robert Redford. You were the one who taught us how to properly butcher a large mouth bass and then pan fry it in butter to impress your girlfriend. And God willing, my own son will learn how to tie a windsor knot before he can walk.

I can run down countless articles and features that have guided me to a healthier, more fulfilling life. "Which Ray Bans to wear at a funeral." The bi-monthly worship of George Clooney keeps me humble. "How to grill oysters in the summer" found a way to combine aphrodisiacs with an open flame. Your August 2007 piece, "What Your Pocket Square Says About You," should be required reading in all elementary schools along with To Kill a Mockingbird.

Which is why I am so disappointed that you're trying to turn the modern man into a limp dicked protohuman who stands out from the pack with flamboyant suspenders. That is how you get shot while hunting, Esquire.

I was set to say goodbye and go back to shopping entirely at the Gap. And then, I turned the page.

As I read through your next article, it was as though you reached inside my brain and produced a piece of print media that speaks directly to me and my unique likes and tastes. True, you went out on a limb with this ambitious new trend, but, indicative of your journalistic integrity, it was supported with numerous visual aids. I'm not sure why I doubted your grasp of what matters to ambitious, professional men. It has been reaffirmed that Esquire truly has its fingers on the pulse of what every red blooded male should be reading and believing.

I speak, of course, about your bold assertion that Kate Upton has fantastic boobs.

Continuing my subscription (both print and electronic),

Max G. Davison
Aspiring Esquire Cover Model

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