Saturday, September 17, 2005

The New Yorker -- Puke

I sometime think the New Yorker exists purely to be placed in aged copper basins before club-footed bathtubs. You want something appropriate on display for when the guests come over. (It's important to thumb though the magazine too before you lay it out. It must look as if you've read it).

Does anyone actually think the New Yorker is a journal of ideas? With the exception of Sy Hersh, there's barely even any fresh reporting in there. Rather its piquant observations on the middle-class lifestyle -- Alka Seltzer for the mind in case thoughts about your own bourgeois small-mindedness and hypocrisy started giving you indigestion.

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