Do You Read?
is that intelligent people who write about being “readers”
feel compelled to mention they read The New Yorker?
Why do they want us to know, or more accurately, why do they
want to be known as New Yorker readers? This magazine
seems to function as a badge of membership in some exclusive
club—one which anyone can join but which only some would choose
If I have to, as Jo Page suggests [“Are You There, Dear Reader?”
Reckonings, March 2], read the cartoons in The New Yorker
to find some recognizable depiction of myself, I’d rather
skip the rest of the pages of “Annals” and literate attitude
and buy a comic book. It’s a lot cheaper and a much better
Perhaps in this lies a solution to the current sociopolitical
condition Page laments. Our “two separate worlds” are not
only those of in-depth reporting and sound byte news. They
are also those of “the choir” and the rest of the congregation
who shop, watch TV, play outside, listen to music, read The
New Yorker, don’t read, exercise, meditate, make art,
and read other periodicals (like The Sun—and find it
inspiring rather than “really depressing” because it is
I’m concerned when a self-identified member of the minority
declares her desire to transform the “citizenry” into a majority
that mirrors her values and strategies. Instead of a “call-to-arms”
perhaps what is needed is a little more elbow-rubbing, the
first step toward which is to put down what you’re reading,
turn to your neighbor, and say hello.
You might even ask, “Read any good books lately?”
am writing in response to David King’s article headlined “Tubcasting”
[Feb. 9]. The article was on my podcast, Soccergirl, Incorporated,
and was part of Metroland’s “Sex Issue.”
Somehow the word “tub” has never really grabbed me as a good
word. It’s short, sounds squat, and reminds me of the word
“vat.” The word “vat” reminds me of large containers filled
with tuna surprise, other large containers filled with slop
for pigs, and a third kind of large container filled with
toxic waste à la the first Batman movie. It was because of
the general ambiance I was going for —hot naked girl in a
lovely porcelain bathtub, warm and clean and otherwise
appealing—that I avoided words that might evoke thoughts of
farm animals and ghoulish mouths stretched into ghoulish grins
on ghoulish clown faces. As you can see, it was a thoughtful
decision I made so many months ago; when I first carried my
boyfriend’s Powerbook G4 from his nice dry room into the nice
wet bathroom, risking both electrocution and getting dumped
(i.e. my future happiness), disrobed, slid into the soapy
water, pressed record, and announced my new invention to the
Internet. I called it Bathcasting. You get to hear me naked.
Now, I’m an independent artist trying to make it in a hard
world. As such, I don’t make a habit out of criticizing the
fine few who find my exploits printworthy. I laud those few.
I spend all of my pocket money erecting very tall pedestals
upon which those few, those forward-thinking gods of print,
may take their ever-loving leisure. I create elaborate fantasy
worlds filled to bursting with fine silks and harem girls,
where I get to pleasure those few sexually for one million
hours until they find divine inspiration and rush to print
glowing reviews of my podcast in Metroland. While I
don’t really know David King, I had high hopes for
us. The highest of hopes.
Rather than addressing each particular error here, I’ve decided
justice would be better served in a medium I find more conducive
to such things: mp3. So, for an audio experience you’re not
likely to find elsewhere, hear me set the Metroland
record straight at: http://soccergirl.pod show.com.
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