Earlier this week, I opened my mailbox to find the year-end issue of Rolling Stone, which is strange because I don't subscribe to Rolling Stone. I used to subscribe, but I slowly started to realize that it was a struggling publication, not in the financial sense (though that could have been true for all I know), but in the creative sense. They were desperately trying to still be a vital voice of music, but they couldn't do it like they could in the '70's, when the crucial music sold a lot of records. But by the early '90's, they had to stoop to hatchet jobs and found any possible relevance being undercut by the flavors of the moment. Nothing they were writing sounded sincere; it was just a case of: "You like that band?! Yeah, so do we! We think they're vital, too!"

So I was not happy to see this rag defacing my mailbox's good name. I thought maybe it had been put there by accident like a lot of my mail. But it was addressed to me, with even the apartment number right. Not having looked at a Rolling Stone in years, I took it upstairs where it was relegated to bathroom duty.

And after a few flip-throughs I have this to tell you: it's only gotten worse. Not only is it the same non-committal writing and kiss-ass desperation that made me hate them, but now they're trying to be funny. And I don't think I have to tell you that it's not funny. A picture of Michael Jordan accompanying a story about him being fired has this caption: "Don't let the locker-room door hit your ass on the way out." HA! They said "ass"!

Their year-end best-of list looks exactly like the desperate list you'd expect. They include million-sellers to make sure that the kids still read their magazine and then include "cutting edge" stuff like Peaches and the Shins, records I doubt anyone at the magazine listened to more than once. Instead of an actual, sincere best of for that year, it looks more like a compilation of year-end list from other music publications and teen blogs.

The cover promised I could have 4 free issues if I subscribed today. Dear Rolling Stone: not today, not tomorrow, not the day after that. No, not then, either.