Eustace Tilley is Sexier Than Your Mama!
Has there ever been a finer American magazine than the New Yorker? Really, has there? For sheer intellectual value, cultural commentary and art? No, kidlets, nay campers - this inveterate bastion of the highbrow reigns supreme. I have cut my teeth on its cartoons, its poetry and fiction since I was barely in my teens.
Go ahead, I dare you - name another American periodical that sports as many "I was there" memoirs than the New Yorker. How many "I wrote for" tell-alls have you heard from Time? Newsweek? How many grandees have stepped forward with their stunning insider's look at the National Geographic or People magazine? I'll give you all the time in the world.
Because, fair readers of this eleckytrawnikul fishwrap, there are none. The New Yorker is the ne plus ultra of American print journalism.
Sure, it's proud heyday may have waned a bit since the glorious reign of William Shawn, but it's still miles beyond what most folks fill their heads with these days.
It's glossy, artsy covers will outlast Survivor and American Idol, it's reporting will continue on until the final mutated cockroach pulls the last bit of cracked concrete off of its carapace with newly-minted thumbs.
Do yourselves a favor - buy a copy. Better yet, let yourself marinate in the history of the magazine by reading the biographies of those who've written for it - A.J. Liebling, J.D. Salinger, Renata Adler and Lillian Ross. James Freakin' Thurber, fer chrissakes! Then go out to a fine local bookstore and purchase the latest issue. Make friends with Hendrik Hertzberg and David Denby. There might be an article from good old John Updike innit for you, too.
There are some things that make America great - the crack of the long ball, a night out on the town for a musical, Edward Hopper paintings and the almighty New Yorker magazine.
Go ahead, I dare you - name another American periodical that sports as many "I was there" memoirs than the New Yorker. How many "I wrote for" tell-alls have you heard from Time? Newsweek? How many grandees have stepped forward with their stunning insider's look at the National Geographic or People magazine? I'll give you all the time in the world.
Because, fair readers of this eleckytrawnikul fishwrap, there are none. The New Yorker is the ne plus ultra of American print journalism.
Sure, it's proud heyday may have waned a bit since the glorious reign of William Shawn, but it's still miles beyond what most folks fill their heads with these days.
It's glossy, artsy covers will outlast Survivor and American Idol, it's reporting will continue on until the final mutated cockroach pulls the last bit of cracked concrete off of its carapace with newly-minted thumbs.
Do yourselves a favor - buy a copy. Better yet, let yourself marinate in the history of the magazine by reading the biographies of those who've written for it - A.J. Liebling, J.D. Salinger, Renata Adler and Lillian Ross. James Freakin' Thurber, fer chrissakes! Then go out to a fine local bookstore and purchase the latest issue. Make friends with Hendrik Hertzberg and David Denby. There might be an article from good old John Updike innit for you, too.
There are some things that make America great - the crack of the long ball, a night out on the town for a musical, Edward Hopper paintings and the almighty New Yorker magazine.
posted by Stefush at 6:56 PM
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