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Everyone, gather 'round, because we're gonna break it down for a second. See, we ve had Radar in our hands for close to a week now — but honestly, we're just writing about the actual product now. The truth is (and prepare yourselves for a soft moment here), we didn t necessarily trust ourselves. After all, we ve only been writing about the damn thing for 73 years now, so how could Gawker possibly be objective? Obviously, this is our own stupid fault - we know most readers certainly didn t request the incessantly retarded, round-the-clock coverage of every twitch around the Radar office. We ve no one to blame but ourselves.

You could quite justifiably say that given our buildup, we were doomed to be disappointed no matter what Radar contained - but honestly, all of us kind of WANT a new magazine to work. (And not just for the easy Gawker content!) Lord knows we all could use something new and shiny and good in our lives. We weren t expecting brilliance, certainly not from the first (third?) issue, but we were hoping Radar to be, like, cool.

Alas, $25 million and a kick-ass masthead does not a magazine make.

We have to start by noting that Radar isn t completely devoid of merit: several of the magazine's 4562312 elements were worthwhile. The Static items - particularly the Naked Lunch feature, in which Julian Niccolini from the Four Seasons Grill Room arranges a seating chart of notable names - were entertaining. There's a great, well-written piece on soliders killing time in Iraq; it's informative in hip, detached way. Perfect. And The List, Radar s back of the book hodgepodge of strange listicles and facts, oddly appeals to your inner dork who still wants to be on Jeopardy. All in all, these are good things.

But the good things, unfortunately, were mostly the small, blurby items - and if the supporting material is more compelling than the primary thinkpieces, it s a problem. The Iraq piece is shoved in the back of the book on unattractive newsprint, like an ugly sibling to prettier, less intelligent features. The other, longer stories were either old news (The Heather Robinson story? The Observer covered her in April 2004. The British Invasion feature on bands like Bloc Party and the Kaiser Chiefs? Hipsters were declaring those artists over before their albums even hit stateside. Dick Cheney has a gay daughter? No way!) or, worse, lacked a compelling premise or angle. (Disney castmembers are actually really people that drink and smoke and have sex?! Paris Hilton is famous for doing nothing?!) And then, on an aesthetic level, the design is chaotic and hard to manage; even the Table of Contents is a strain on the eyes.

We're disappointed, but it's because Radar could work — and right now, it doesn't. Some elements were compelling, but not enough so to hold interest until the next issue, if there is one, 2 or 3 or 15 months down the line. Ultimately, one can't help but wonder if the frenetic design and content might be better if it were tailored down and released weekly.

(Speaking of the weekly format, we actually found ourselves thinking over and over again that, were Radar half the size and published, say, 14 times more frequently, it would settle into something more tangible and find its niche. Chop it down, eliminate the awkwardness, and find thyself. Or something. Fresh Intelligence ain't fresh after a month, you know?)

While Radar has the talent and the concepts in place, these ultimately aren't enough to make the magazine a cohesive product. There's too much going on; they're trying to be irreverent in every possible way when we'd rather see them perfectly nail a handful of targets to the wall.

There s one page in Radar that perhaps best sums up the problem with the entire issue: page 63, a pre-printed form for anyone who would like to sue Radar over its waggish content. Much like the magazine itself, however, the gimmick is aspirationally arch. The humor is self-referential, but misses the mark - which inherently suggests that perhaps Radar doesn t even know itself. Deep, right?