I have a subscription to New York Magazine. I like to read it because the cover articles tend to be edgy and intelligent, and the publication as a whole tends to be more pop culture friendly than their slightly stuffy counter-periodical, The New Yorker. If you don’t live in NYC or around it, you might not have heard about NY Mag, which is fine. It’s a little inside-jokey. A little self-referential — cultivating a between-the-lines feeling that the New York publishing world is the center of the universe.

But like that slightly snotty friend who turns around and buys everyone a round of drinks at the bar, I just can’t seem to break up with NY Mag and read my weekly copy faithfully. There’s only one thing about the periodical that really bothers me, and it usually can be skipped over quite readily…unless of course, you’re me, reading it last night.

You see, yesterday I had a long day. The bus ride back from work was so packed it induced claustrophobia, and two people decided to get into a screaming match that included gems such as “SHUT UP, RETARD!!”, “YOU’RE THE RETARD!!”, “ON YOUR MOM!!”, “ON YOURS, MINE’S DEAD!!”. When I got home, my internet and cable were still not working…a problem left over from the weekend, and it was probably around 105 F in my apartment. Pouring myself a bowl of cereal, I sat down and decided to spend the evening reading, and my new copy of New York Magazine was the first thing I got my exhausted hands on. Read More »