So why, then, does The New Yorker embody almost everything I hate about myself and more? Well, perhaps it's because every time I pick up The New Yorker, be it here in New York or at home in Juneau where I am foolish enough to have a subscription, the following thoughts run through my mind at a breakneck pace:
--Why do I have a subscription to this magazine? It's killing trees and I can't keep up with it. I can't even make it through one tiny little feature during one crap on the toilet. Is it because this is not a one-crap type of magazine?
--Why can't I keep up with this magazine? Is it because I am slow and stupid? Maybe this magazine is for smart people and I am not smart?
--Why am I not writing for this magazine? I could write a Shouts and Murmurs! This Shouts and Murmurs sucks! Why are they not asking me to be the editor of Shouts and Murmurs?
--My 11th grade English teacher Mr. Pahlka said he fully expected to see my work in this magazine one day. He wrote it in the margin of a term paper one time. Why was he wrong? Have I let him down? Is he even still alive? If he is, what will happen in the very likely event that I fail to fulfill his prophecy?
--Why is everyone in this magazine so smart and beautiful and interesting? Why am I dumb and ugly and boring by comparison?
--Why do I not understand this cartoon? What am I missing? It's just a cartoon. I am clearly not getting something that the editors of this magazine believed their readership would readily understand. I am not in this club.
--Why do I care? Didn't I leave New York for a reason? Doesn't every issue of this magazine reflect the effete, snobbish bullshit that I am supposed to eschew by not living here anymore?
--Look at everything I am missing. Some installation at The Frick and some other thing at The Knitting Factory next Tuesday that is surely the cutting edge of the next whatever-it-is that I need to know about. How can I have done this to myself and worse, my children?
--How can I subscribe to a magazine that advertises Rolex watches and Prada bags? What does this say about me? What kind of person am I in league with here? I must have something in common with people who buy Rolexes and wear Prada. Something terrible. It can only be something terrible. Holy shit. What is it?
--How can I continue to have all of these thoughts? Am I really that much of a narcissist? What does it say about me that I think I'm a narcissist in the first place? That I really am one? What could this mean?
--Why do I have a subscription to this magazine? It's killing trees and I can't keep up with it. I can't even make it through one tiny little feature during one crap on the toilet. Is it because this is not a one-crap type of magazine?
--Why can't I keep up with this magazine? Is it because I am slow and stupid? Maybe this magazine is for smart people and I am not smart?
--Why am I not writing for this magazine? I could write a Shouts and Murmurs! This Shouts and Murmurs sucks! Why are they not asking me to be the editor of Shouts and Murmurs?
--My 11th grade English teacher Mr. Pahlka said he fully expected to see my work in this magazine one day. He wrote it in the margin of a term paper one time. Why was he wrong? Have I let him down? Is he even still alive? If he is, what will happen in the very likely event that I fail to fulfill his prophecy?
--Why is everyone in this magazine so smart and beautiful and interesting? Why am I dumb and ugly and boring by comparison?
--Why do I not understand this cartoon? What am I missing? It's just a cartoon. I am clearly not getting something that the editors of this magazine believed their readership would readily understand. I am not in this club.
--Why do I care? Didn't I leave New York for a reason? Doesn't every issue of this magazine reflect the effete, snobbish bullshit that I am supposed to eschew by not living here anymore?
--Look at everything I am missing. Some installation at The Frick and some other thing at The Knitting Factory next Tuesday that is surely the cutting edge of the next whatever-it-is that I need to know about. How can I have done this to myself and worse, my children?
--How can I subscribe to a magazine that advertises Rolex watches and Prada bags? What does this say about me? What kind of person am I in league with here? I must have something in common with people who buy Rolexes and wear Prada. Something terrible. It can only be something terrible. Holy shit. What is it?
--How can I continue to have all of these thoughts? Am I really that much of a narcissist? What does it say about me that I think I'm a narcissist in the first place? That I really am one? What could this mean?
Again, nothing good, I'm afraid...
