I deplore The New Yorker

I deplore The New Yorker. Not just because it is the publication that defines how to be pretentious, and not simply because of the old-world traditions imbued in it’s subscribers, and not because I’m from the West Coast and not for a million other common reasons to detest The New Yorker. Lugubrious and mistaken, I have endured a dinner party in accordance to The New Yorker’s mission and manners. Arranged by those who sit around fancy dining tables that are anything but rectangular and assign their guests to sit apart from their significant other as to produce more salivating and intelligent conversation, these parties are mainly miserable. The old ‘sit apart from the one you love’ trick may be a successful device in terms of increasing awkwardness, (most likely invented by a pot-bellied toffee in a top hat that wrote for The New Yorker) yet these parties don’t alleviate stress or encourage a fulfilling life as New Yorker aficionados dare to believe. Being reminded of mundane societal standards and upper-crest rhetoric is the opposite of what I desire in press.

The infamous journal read by those considered elite employs a section titled, “The Talk of the Town” which really means, “If one likes to be noticed, discuss this!” (A successful format utilized by the indie juggernaut, Pitchfork.com who now have a stronghold over what their acquiescent readers aurally ingest). If one chooses otherwise, they will go on distressingly as the obsolete dinner guest and won’t be invited to Mrs. And Mr. Porker’s next week for the latest bacon gastronomic concoction and Acai power smoothie. I must admit, I thoroughly enjoy the occasional Acai smoothie but can do without all that cheese, peanut butter + bacon bits sandwich that I flushed out my system along with the latest satire on “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” and ideas behind why eating whale blubber should be legalized. I can laugh the majority of what the New Yorker has to offer away but I stained my oxford button-up with Acai anti-oxidants while reading Clive James’ curious review on the latest Aldous Huxley biography in which he states the Huxley reader as, “Young, clueless, and longing to be profound.”’ It became evident within the first few sentences that Mr. James has not opened an Aldous Huxley novel since his undergraduate days, or daze, invalidating his entire summation of the late author.

Those that read The New Yorker probably condemn drug use and may see Aldous Huxley as a late Californian idealist whose pursuit of Eastern Philosophy ruined his reputation, however if the review were written before Brave New World was published in 1932, before the author had any connotation with utopias or science fiction, Mr. James would not feel so clueless. This shows a lack of research and an unnecessary bias. Even if much to the chagrin of Jonathan Richman, I become old and dignified I will never subscribe to The New Yorker.