Monday, October 31, 2005
c'mon 'n read it
I used to hate those people who'd read the New Yorker on the train while headed to work in the morning. They all seemed to be subtly screaming, "hey, look at me, I'm smart and urbane and hold the potential for affluence and, like, read the New Yorker, and stuff". The worst were the 23-year-old dudes in ties and long trenchcoats, and the ever more worst were the young professional gals in conservative business attire and bright white tennis shoes. Those bright white shoes are mandatory for the working women of downtown Boston; they wear 'em to work, then swap out with more appropriate footware once at the office. Anyway, they'd sit there on the train all proud and haughty with their precious New Yorker, intellectually towering above the rest of us, with our Times and Entertainment Weeklys, or, most likely, Boston Metros.
A couple of weeks ago I became one of them. Back in September my wife found some cheap as hell magazine site and went on a massive subscription spree. We've got a couple dozen coming to our mailbox now, some weekly, most monthly, and among them resides that outstanding publication from down South (um, south of Boston, ie, New York, ergo, the NEW YORKER) I threw the first issue we received in my worksack one morning, thinking I'd maybe look it over on my lunch-break. After finishing off the Metro in about five minutes, though, I had nothing to peruse whilst jostling amongst my gainly employed peers upon the ol' underground iron horse. Furtively I removed my copy of that dandified rag, trying to avoid any attention and the derision it would no doubt bring upon me. I read a few pages, read a few more, and then slowly forgot about any concerns or misgivings. For the next few days I read my New Yorker openly, enthusiastically, eventually almost flouting my sophistication and erudition in front of my fellow passengers. It felt good, even though I realized I had become that very thing I most dearly detested.
Anyway, it didn't last long. I started up a book after finishing that first issue, and haven't taken the latest on the rails with me yet. By the time I finish up V., I'll probably have two more New Yorkers waiting to be read. I flip through them while using the bathroom, but unless I get really really sick, I don't spend nearly enough time in there to finish off an issue in a timely fashion. My stint as a New Yorker train-readin' guy appears to have been brief.
Oh, and about V - what the hell? Where are all the reptilian alien guys? And Martin from the 5th Column? And Freddy Krueger, Marc Singer, and the stereotypical wise-cracking, street-smart black hood with a conscience? What a rip.
I used to hate those people who'd read the New Yorker on the train while headed to work in the morning. They all seemed to be subtly screaming, "hey, look at me, I'm smart and urbane and hold the potential for affluence and, like, read the New Yorker, and stuff". The worst were the 23-year-old dudes in ties and long trenchcoats, and the ever more worst were the young professional gals in conservative business attire and bright white tennis shoes. Those bright white shoes are mandatory for the working women of downtown Boston; they wear 'em to work, then swap out with more appropriate footware once at the office. Anyway, they'd sit there on the train all proud and haughty with their precious New Yorker, intellectually towering above the rest of us, with our Times and Entertainment Weeklys, or, most likely, Boston Metros.
A couple of weeks ago I became one of them. Back in September my wife found some cheap as hell magazine site and went on a massive subscription spree. We've got a couple dozen coming to our mailbox now, some weekly, most monthly, and among them resides that outstanding publication from down South (um, south of Boston, ie, New York, ergo, the NEW YORKER) I threw the first issue we received in my worksack one morning, thinking I'd maybe look it over on my lunch-break. After finishing off the Metro in about five minutes, though, I had nothing to peruse whilst jostling amongst my gainly employed peers upon the ol' underground iron horse. Furtively I removed my copy of that dandified rag, trying to avoid any attention and the derision it would no doubt bring upon me. I read a few pages, read a few more, and then slowly forgot about any concerns or misgivings. For the next few days I read my New Yorker openly, enthusiastically, eventually almost flouting my sophistication and erudition in front of my fellow passengers. It felt good, even though I realized I had become that very thing I most dearly detested.
Anyway, it didn't last long. I started up a book after finishing that first issue, and haven't taken the latest on the rails with me yet. By the time I finish up V., I'll probably have two more New Yorkers waiting to be read. I flip through them while using the bathroom, but unless I get really really sick, I don't spend nearly enough time in there to finish off an issue in a timely fashion. My stint as a New Yorker train-readin' guy appears to have been brief.
Oh, and about V - what the hell? Where are all the reptilian alien guys? And Martin from the 5th Column? And Freddy Krueger, Marc Singer, and the stereotypical wise-cracking, street-smart black hood with a conscience? What a rip.
