In a bid to fill my mailbox with something other than bills and catalogues sent in an attempt to coerce me into creating more bills, I asked my man-friend to get me a magazine subscription for my birthday. After much debate, I elected to receive the New Yorker. The magazine has been coming for a while now, and it’s been a pleasure to see the witty covers staring up at me from the mailbox.
Much like the characters that seem to creep into the pages of the periodical, I’m developing a New Yorker neurosis. The issues come almost too quickly. By the time I’ve dutifully plodded through the majority of the stories in a given issue, the next one is laying on the dining room table like a challenge. You asked for me, Derjue. Now read.
Just skimming the issue feels like a crime. People worked hard on what appears in the pages and I enjoy enriching my brain and learning more about Bruce Springsteen, people who lie about running marathons, and who’s writing fiction worthy of the New Yorker. A friend suggested that when I’m crunched for time I could skim the magazine for the cartoons. But that seems too wasteful.
Speaking of waste. Subscribing to the New Yorker is what I imagine a rabbit breeder feels like. (“I swear there were fewer of these things here yesterday.”) I save the issues when I’m done for the man-friend’s enjoyment, but he reads at a much slower pace. The coffee table has been taken over by back issues that are making no progress towards the recycling bin.
Last week, the New Yorker announced an app that allows subscribers to read the magazine on their portable devices and access additional content. Are you kidding? I do not need additional content—I’m barely keeping pace with what comes in the old-school print edition.
However, I am excited to know that I can access the articles on my phone, since I’m almost positive my mailman is reading the issues before dropping them in the box. This week’s issue didn’t arrive until Saturday. He must have really relished Lena Dunham’s essay about her ex-boyfriend.