When I Was In Rolling Stone Magazine

 

When I saw my photo in Rolling Stone magazine, I thought God was telling me to move to New York.

Here I am in the October 6th, 1988 issue. A poor man's Bowie, sitting with other members of my "History of Rock and Roll" class, part of my pop culture minor at Bowling Green State University. (Group photo below)

At the time, BGSU had one of the only academic popular culture programs dedicated to America's most influential global export. 

Far more serious than it sounds, the course laid out how rock was born from the blues and country (and folk, and gospel, and jazz...) and exploded during the cultural revolution of the prior four decades. 

Sure it was fun, but it was also a lot of papers explaining how America's greatest export reflected the good, the bad, and the angst in our society. 

Rolling Stone decided to spotlight the program and sent writer Anthony DeCurtis to observe our class and interview some students afterwards. I was invited and even got quoted in the story:

"I think the main reason the classes are looked upon as a blow-off is that the people who come to them enjoy them," says Brett Henne, a journalism student who has taken a few popular-culture courses. "If you enjoy a class, it doesn't necessarily make it a blow-off. It just means you're interested in learning." 

Whoa. Those last lines are a t-shirt, right?

One of the class experiments earlier in the semester was to dress up as punks and walk around campus to gauge other students' reactions. I didn't feel like getting spat on, so I sat that one out. But when Rolling Stone wanted to photograph us re-creating the punk experiment, I suddenly conjured up an all-black goth ensemble with a touch of lip and guyliner. 

Photo: Chip Simons

Later, after the group interview, I saw my opening for the Big Time and ran up to DeCurtis. 

"It's the yuppie in me, but does Rolling Stone offer internships?"

DeCurtis brightly confirmed, but added, "I'm embarrassed to say that they don't pay." 

I nodded and said, "That's OK! and kept nodding, trying to fool myself it really was all right.

"I think I have...," he fished out a business card from his wallet. "Yes, here's our internship coordinator. Reach out to her and tell her we spoke."

The magazine's red iconic logo was emblazoned across the top of the card. 

I ran all the way back to my apartment to show my roommates, jumping up and down like I had just won Willy Wonka's gold ticket.

Maybe this was my ticket to the Big Apple.