How to Win Me Back

This morning as I was heading out the door to catch the metro, I paused to grab the current issue of the New Yorker, which was sitting on top of the stack of mail in my lovely group house mailbox. I recalled that given the barrage of irritating letters I have been receiving from them recently, that this would be the last issue in my subscription. To be honest, I've been reconsidering my relationship with the magazine recently and have started to think that perhaps it has evolved past its prime. I used to look forward to Tuesdays (always Tuesday for some reason) when it would arrive and I'd have something witty and engaging to read on the metro. I can't pinpoint what has changed about the magazine, but I feel that the topics of the articles aren't as interesting to me as they once were. These days, I have been reading it almost exclusively for the movie reviews (although Anthony Lane seems to hate every movie he sees so there's almost no point) and the cartoons.

This morning as I picked up my copy I made a silent promise: If Shouts and Murmurs is amusing, I will renew my subscription (mine is ridiculously cheap--the magazine bought my name from a list of some sort and I now receive their "professional rate". What sort of "professional" they have never specified). Shouts and Murmurs, for those of you unaware, is the magazine's humor column. Recently it hasn't been very funny, which is disappointing, because smart humor, when executed correctly, is the best thing on earth.

Fifteen minutes into my metro ride (am I right to think the red line was unusually crowded this morning?) I flipped to Shouts and Murmurs. This week's subject is a satirical take on the Federal government's phone tapping of potential terrorists, otherwise known as "very bad people." I'll let you read it for yourself, but let me confess that a minute into the piece I was laughing so hard I could barely sit up straight and tears were streaming down my face washing away the eyeliner I had made myself late for work by so artfully applying (not entirely true. I was actually late for work because I stayed out too late last night drinking very cheap wine followed by too much beer at the Pour House, which was worth it of course, as it always is.).

Of course, we know what this means, my dependency on the New Yorker has been re-established. I know it's the magazine equivalent of a neglectful boyfriend who wins back your affections with lavish gifts, but my partner is too wily for me. It knows my weaknesses all too well.