Monday, December 22, 2014

Oh Wait! I Almost Forgot: Everything I Hate About Myself is ALSO Embodied in One Other Thing . . .

The New Yorker magazine. Why? It's just an innocent magazine. Much like the holiday card, it's just another piece of paper depicting beautiful people and their beautiful words. It never did anything to me.

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?

Again, nothing good, I'm afraid...


  1. Yeah, have to agree that you could write a much better Shouts and Murmurs than those jokers. xx

  2. Next time I come to Juneau I'll take a few of these off your hands. Nobody has made me feel stupid in a couple of months. I'm overdue.


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