I've finally figured out the point of the New Yorker, and no, I am not about to insinuate anything about bathroom reading material. No, the point of the New Yorker is that when you're feeling sorry for yourself about how you live in a trillionth-floor walk-up in Brooklyn and have just carried three weeks' worth of laundry to the laundromat, you can then sit and wait for the wash cycle to finish while reading about the Skid Row homeless and trafficked young girls from Moldova, both of which make you feel lucky to spend the day schlepping.
That said, the Austrian basement-incest case exists to remind those with even Third World Problems that they could have it worse. Not for those who have yet to eat lunch, an Australian news video (how's that for confusing the geographically-challenged) introduces the story with shots of the most depraved man alive in a Speedo. Europe may be "better in some ways," but male swimwear is not one of them.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
It could be worse
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Your comment about reading the New Yorker in the laundramat gave me a sense of deja vu. I wonder, if like me, you now associate the sound of the end of the wash or dry cycle with that magazine. I no longer go to laundramats (hooray), but 18 years later the sound association persists. JM
"I've finally figured out the point of the New Yorker"
You're in the vague neighborhood here, but a bit off on the details.
Xanax and/or marijuana is the proper way to get through the boredom of the laundromat.
The New Yorker is expressly designed to give you something to read at the gym during the boredom of the workout and sauna.
Post a Comment