recently, my gorgeous gal-pal (who says that?? i guess i do) Jacqueline pointed out that she has a hard time catching up on her leisurely reading when she's trying to catch up on the ever-growing stack of New Yorkers at the foot of her sofa, so i need to talk about this. this is a disease. a couple of years ago, i actually suspended my subscription because the amount of New Yorkers that i just had to read every last single fucking article in was out of control, taking over my apartment, taking over my mind. it was like a blight - you would open your mailbox and there would be a brand new squeaky fresh New Yorker every second day it seemed, when you still hadn't even finished the article on the iran hostage affair, but as Jackie said, seriously, give it to me in four paragraphs instead of your 10 page tiny-ass print. i would shudder when i saw all those covers with their similarly sickly hazy colors that kind of give me nightmares actually staring up at me from the floor saying all saltily, "you just don't want to be informed, do you?" assholes.
when i got my e-reader, because i just happen to love trees, and i also happen to love receiving e-readers at Christmas, i resubscribed. while i can no longer wave my New Yorker in other people's faces on the subway to show that i am a highly literate moron, i can, if i so desire, so very easily ignore the fact that i am ignoring a new issue of the New Yorker every other day. it's like when i overcame the obsessive compulsive handwashing tendencies of my youth, it's that kind of utter fucking fantastic happiness. i would also like to admit here that i absolutely hate the poetry in the New Yorker. i think it's just so absolutely horrible that i literally cringe when i read it. am i about to be shot? to make matters worse, they've also evidently stopped electronically transmitting the cartoons, which is half the reason i'm paying $2.99 a month now anyhow.
this makes me think of one of my absolute favorite short stories of all time, published in the New Yorker: Donald Barthelme's The Balloon. it's about this massive balloon that sprouts up over New York and New Yorkers just deal with it, they play on it, they fall in love on it, they take walks on it, kind of like the High Line, but obviously even better. it is just fucking awesome, find it and read it.
my horoscope yesterday, the day i realized i couldn't be with the Love of my Life. that's like life without cupcakes. fuck you New York Post.
when i got my e-reader, because i just happen to love trees, and i also happen to love receiving e-readers at Christmas, i resubscribed. while i can no longer wave my New Yorker in other people's faces on the subway to show that i am a highly literate moron, i can, if i so desire, so very easily ignore the fact that i am ignoring a new issue of the New Yorker every other day. it's like when i overcame the obsessive compulsive handwashing tendencies of my youth, it's that kind of utter fucking fantastic happiness. i would also like to admit here that i absolutely hate the poetry in the New Yorker. i think it's just so absolutely horrible that i literally cringe when i read it. am i about to be shot? to make matters worse, they've also evidently stopped electronically transmitting the cartoons, which is half the reason i'm paying $2.99 a month now anyhow.
this makes me think of one of my absolute favorite short stories of all time, published in the New Yorker: Donald Barthelme's The Balloon. it's about this massive balloon that sprouts up over New York and New Yorkers just deal with it, they play on it, they fall in love on it, they take walks on it, kind of like the High Line, but obviously even better. it is just fucking awesome, find it and read it.
my horoscope yesterday, the day i realized i couldn't be with the Love of my Life. that's like life without cupcakes. fuck you New York Post.
