Dear New Yorker Readers,
You know when you’re at a friend’s house, say for a dinner party, and the wine is flowing, and you’re all discussing the rise of the use of live objects— cats, dogs, gerbils, plants, donkeys painted to look like zebras, actual zebras— in light installations, particularly in some regions in rural France, which seems random but is totally attributable to a short reference found in Madame Bovary and the following rivalry between Paris and the rest of France for artistic dominion?
And it’s totally awkward, because none of you know anything about what you’re talking about, so you transition to talk about Justin Bieber’s new album and its likely philosophical impacts on seminal teenage texts such as The Catcher in the Rye and its near British equivalent (seriously, it’s so typical that American readers haven’t heard of this, much less read it) The Rachel Papers.
And at some point in the evening, you all realize— you educated, talented, interesting folk with families and love lives (well, some of you) and worthwhile jobs (well, a few of you) and snappy comebacks (with that one notable exception)— that YOU’RE ALL JUST TALKING YOUR WAY THROUGH THE LATEST NEW YORKER AND PRETENDING THAT YOU’RE NOT.
Tell me, how does it feel? Hot, like fondue and shame? Or bone-chilling, like a palette cleansing scoop of fig and pear gelato between courses?
And isn’t it tricky to all find an issue that you’ve all read in common, since New Yorker readers are on average 3-37 issues behind? WHAT HAPPENS IF SOMEONE SPOILS THE NEW ONE FOR YOU?