The October 24th issue of The New Yorker arrived today, always the first thing I look at at the mailbox, before I take anything else out of the cubbyhole and out of the parcel locker. I get news of the contents of the week's magazine in my e-mail, but I skim through it. I always like to see it in print because it's there, immediately accessible. No waiting for anything online.
The most promising issues to me have a review by Nancy Franklin, my favorite TV critic, and a review by Anthony Lane, one of my two favorite film critics (Josh Bell of Las Vegas Weekly is the other). This issue had both. All it needed to make it potentially perfect was a restaurant review by managing editor Amelia Lester, since she's the best at it. No luck. The review, of St. Anselm in Brooklyn, was by Hannah Goldfield, but now I will be looking for her name in these reviews just as much as Lester, because of a very funny three-quarters of a paragraph about the desserts offered at St. Anselm:
"St. Anselm (with whom Carroll's grandfather shared a name) was a Benedictine monk who made the first ontological argument for the existence of God. St. Anselm's dessert menu makes a less than convincing argument for the existence of a pastry chef. There is little appealing about a half-full jar of peanut butter surrounded by chunks of chocolate (unless, of course, you're stoned), and a plate of marshmallows, strawberries, and crumbled graham crackers drizzled in chocolate sauce looks like what happens when a four-year-old is left alone in a pantry."
Also stocked in this issue was an article about premature births and the methods taken to save babies who are prematurely born, a piece by David Sedaris about summers in the '60s spent on swim teams, and a profile of Jill Abramson, a veteran of The New York Times who was named the new executive editor.
This particular issue also served another purpose. Every day during the week, I have a purple index card next to me on the couch, and whenever I hear music I like on the Spa channel on XM Radio, I write it down and look it up either on YouTube or elsewhere to listen to it more closely and decide if it fits the desert soundtrack I'm creating (More details here: http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/09/desert-soundtrack.html).
The XM Radio in the living room was on when I came out after getting up at 11:20 this morning, and the mail came not long after, so I had this issue in front of me, but no purple index card with me. Two at the computer are still not all filled up, so I could have used those, but I didn't feel like getting them. Mom was on the computer anyway.
I had a pen with me for the purpose of circling those names that interest me in the "Contributors" section on page 2 to look up later (Their books especially), the plays that are listed under "The Theatre" that I want to read, if they're published, and anything else that I want to look up later, including references to some books in the Jill Abramson profile.
And then, while circling names in the "Contributors" section, I heard a flute piece that sounded familiar, that I probably had heard before on the Spa channel. I got up to see what it was, and it was, as listed, "The Dreams of Ch", by Shadowfax. I found out just now that the full title is "The Dreams of Children." It seemed like a bit of the desert to me when I heard it on XM. Listening to it now, it's less so, but it conjures up populated desert streets while driving to Henderson from Las Vegas, not far at all, and farmer's markets I've heard about in the area, that I want to go to.
Later, on page 34, in the middle of the piece about premature births, I heard "Fruits of the La" by Shinji Ishihara, very familiar to me. I hear this one at least twice a week on the Spa Channel. The full title, via YouTube, is "Fruits of the Land," and it feels like it fits the view of that ocean of desert seen from the large rock ledge near the Hacienda Hotel and Casino, the rippling of the heat that made it seem like it was coming closer and then receding, much like the actual ocean. Unfortunately, a search on Amazon and on Google reveals no way to download it. I need this in my desert soundtrack.
And so it went, also through page 44 ("Hakusha-Sonso" by Wall Matthews) and page 55 ("Come My Way" by William Aura). There are weeks when "The New Yorker" totally captivates me, and this came close with that first piece, David Sedaris' appearance, and the Jill Abramson profile. It rests on the steps to that Pantheon of New Yorker Perfection because of being right there when I needed space for music.
Showing posts with label The New Yorker. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The New Yorker. Show all posts
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Starlight
Starlight by Ann Beattie. Read. This is what I aspire to in my future presidential history books:
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2011/09/19/110919fi_fiction_beattie
This is coming out in November as this. I've pre-ordered it on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Mrs-Nixon-Novelist-Imagines-Life/dp/1439168717/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1316640782&sr=1-2
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2011/09/19/110919fi_fiction_beattie
This is coming out in November as this. I've pre-ordered it on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Mrs-Nixon-Novelist-Imagines-Life/dp/1439168717/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1316640782&sr=1-2
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Keeping Magazines Close to Myself
This morning, while I was sleeping, stacks of books next to my bed fell. Call it a quirk of gravity and shoddy stacksmanship.
After breakfast, emptying the dishwasher, and a shave, I got right to it, reorganizing the books according to what I really want to read in the next few weeks. The books next to my bed are crucial. The ones across from my bed, on the other side of my room, I can pull them out whenever I feel like it, whenever some image or some line from another book compels me to seek out more about, say, Walt Disney World, but they remain where they are, the order of those stacks never changing.
As I stacked The Bookseller of Kabul atop The World in Half by Cristina Henriquez (Two I got from Big Lots last week when my dad decided to go there to seek out a new cell phone case), the ones I want to read next after I finish The Secret of Everything by Barbara O'Neal, I spotted a fold-out ad I had received in the mail from The American Poetry Review, offering up the prices for a subscription, and including covers of past issues, and a poem, "The Mysterious Human Heart" by Matthew Dickman, from the November/December 2008 issue. Dickman writes about going to a market in New York, looking for plantains, ginger root, and cilantro. I read the poem, and the desire for a new subscription stirred in me.
I had recently cancelled my subscriptions to Bookmarks and The London Review of Books because I don't enjoy reading book reviews, and by extension, I began to tire of these magazines. Bookmarks was good to see the covers of various upcoming books, and for plot summaries, but what more could I get from that that I haven't already gotten from Amazon and abebooks.com when I need it? I first considered Bookmarks to be a menu of possibilities, but then I determined in the following months that I like to explore on my own. I like to bump into books, to see one that captures my eye on Amazon when I'm looking up another one on the site. I loved my visit to Big Lots because I went to the book section without any idea of what I wanted. I would just know when I found it, and I did in the two aforementioned books, as well as Dog Days by Jon Katz, Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland, and a few others. I didn't need a magazine to tell me what was coming up when I'd probably find out on my own anyway. I like the e-mails from Amazon, the "Best of the Month" ones because they gives me a small taste of what's available and to see what suits me. But it never pushes. I am my own literary explorer.
The only book critic I've ever liked has been Michael Dirda of The Washington Post, and that's because I had discovered his book, Readings: Essays and Literary Entertainment, while browsing Amazon and I loved learning about what sparked him to reading and why he's loved it for decades. I prefer an introduction like that. Show me a critic who started out as an avid reader, who devoured every single book they found, and I will read them, because their words will be suffused with that love, no matter how shoddy the book might be. Dirda's the only one I've found of that stripe so far, though I don't actively search for them.
I never found such personalities in London Review of Books. I learned of it by way of the personal ads it's apparently well-known for, selections that had been published in two books compiled by David Rose. I wanted to see what else this magazine offered and I had been impressed with the broadsheet size of it, that the writers within could concentrate so carefully on books. But what I found was concentration, never a sense of passion, which I suppose wouldn't fly with London Review of Books, unless there was an article by Alan Bennett, in which case it was the quiet passion I appreciated, of a man walking as I do through the vast universe of books, bending down to pick up whatever he finds in front of him, and reading in appreciation. But I never got that impression with the other articles in that magazine. It was as if those writers were sitting on a stately perch, looking down at all the books gathered below them, harumphing and sniffing haughtily about books they happened to read with two fingers perched at the spine, one in the spine and one behind it. It's intellectualism I cannot embrace. When I was reading How to Bake a Perfect Life while walking through the Walmart Supercenter with Mom and Meridith, and I got to the reunion of Ramona and Jonah, my heart swelled up big and I felt like I was going to be pulled up into the air, free to float and fly around in pure happiness. Right then, I wanted the entire world to know about this book. And that's the feeling I want to sense if I happen to read a book review. Dirda has that. Others don't.
So The London Review of Books was out too. But I wasn't searching for a new magazine to subscribe to in the way I was looking for a new hour-long show that I could be as passionate about as The West Wing. My go-to magazines are The New Yorker, Poets & Writers, The Oxford American, and Saveur, which is about food of all cultures and types, about cooking, about living life tasting everything you can and holding in your mouth that which you love so dearly. And it's not just the writing that expresses that, but also the photography. I've never seen food look like this, and only have there been a few times that I have seen it outside of a photograph, such as the Swedish meatballs at IKEA. There is a great comfort to such a dish, including the meatball gravy that goes on top of the mashed potatoes too, as well as the lingonberry sauce. It is like a security blanket. Saveur does that often, exploring what we are passionate about in food. The Oxford American does that with its Southern writing, with culture in much the same way, but publishes its own food issue never often enough.
I latched on to The New Yorker through John Boston, who had worked at The Signal for 30 years as its foremost columnist, humor and otherwise, to the extent that when we moved here and Mom saw his byline often in the paper, she thought he owned it. He was truly the heart and soul in this valley and it was an unforgivable crime when he left the paper after so much shoddy treatment. Boston had issues of The New Yorker on the bookshelves next to his desk, and let me take many of them home for my own perusal. I was fiercely attracted to the cartoons and a few writers, such as Patricia Marx, who is a terrific humorist, and whose second novel, Starting from Happy, I have but I still haven't read it yet. Other books have gotten in the way, also literally, because I'm not sure which stack it's in.
My subscription to The New Yorker lasts until September 2014, since I renewed it last year, and I don't intend to cancel it early, especially because of Amelia Lester, the 27-year-old managing editor, and her restaurant reviews. She lets the details of the restaurants speak for themselves, with slightly bouncy prose that I always enjoy. But what's always bothered me about The New Yorker, even though I know it's because of its prestige, are some writers of articles who get so overexcited about where they are. They're at The New Yorker! Their articles must sound like it with many exclamation points peppered throughout even though there's merely a comma or period there! They have to call their parents and let them know right away that they're in The New Yorker again!
Just write the article. Aim for the prestige that you want so much, but come on, an article about the AIDS epidemic probably should not have that kind of exclamation-point feeling in it. I enjoy that every week is a crapshoot, that I won't know what I'll be getting until I get that e-mail from The New Yorker detailing what's in the next issue. And when I open that e-mail, I cross my fingers and hope for a TV review from Nancy Franklin (my favorite TV critic) and a movie review from Anthony Lane (My favorite film critic, although there are weeks when Josh Bell, the film critic for Las Vegas Weekly supplants him). But I don't enjoy those articles that have that feeling of "OH MY GOD! I'M IN THE NEW YORKER!!!!!" I prefer subtlety in words. The power of an article will emanate from what you write about. John McPhee had no problem doing that. It works.
I get the same feeling from The American Poetry Review as I do with Poets & Writers, a devotion to the attempt at making the written word work in new ways, to reflect different minds, different cultures, different approaches to the world. Like Saveur, I feel like I can hold it close to me. It's mine. I will always find something in the pages to interest me. Just like there will always be food that's new to me to learn about in Saveur, and just like there's always a new method of writing to learn about in Poets & Writers, and just like there's parts of Southern culture new to me to learn about in The Oxford American, I think there will always be a new poem or a few in The American Poetry Review that will wrap its tendrils around my brain and heart, compelling me to reread those words, taking in each one, watching as it connects to the others, seeing what it creates that fires my imagination and makes my heart bloom. I get the same feeling while watching Jeopardy!, except for the emotional parts. I like studying how the questions were written, why they're written in those particular ways. It feels like The American Poetry Review will do that for me too, and why I subscribed for 3 years at $34.50. It's published 6 times a year, and that's a pretty good span of time to absorb the power of any poems that affect me so before the next issue comes out. And the balance of Saveur, The New Yorker, The Oxford American, Poets & Writers, and The American Poetry Review feels right. I can get what I want from all of them and feel satisfied every time.
After breakfast, emptying the dishwasher, and a shave, I got right to it, reorganizing the books according to what I really want to read in the next few weeks. The books next to my bed are crucial. The ones across from my bed, on the other side of my room, I can pull them out whenever I feel like it, whenever some image or some line from another book compels me to seek out more about, say, Walt Disney World, but they remain where they are, the order of those stacks never changing.
As I stacked The Bookseller of Kabul atop The World in Half by Cristina Henriquez (Two I got from Big Lots last week when my dad decided to go there to seek out a new cell phone case), the ones I want to read next after I finish The Secret of Everything by Barbara O'Neal, I spotted a fold-out ad I had received in the mail from The American Poetry Review, offering up the prices for a subscription, and including covers of past issues, and a poem, "The Mysterious Human Heart" by Matthew Dickman, from the November/December 2008 issue. Dickman writes about going to a market in New York, looking for plantains, ginger root, and cilantro. I read the poem, and the desire for a new subscription stirred in me.
I had recently cancelled my subscriptions to Bookmarks and The London Review of Books because I don't enjoy reading book reviews, and by extension, I began to tire of these magazines. Bookmarks was good to see the covers of various upcoming books, and for plot summaries, but what more could I get from that that I haven't already gotten from Amazon and abebooks.com when I need it? I first considered Bookmarks to be a menu of possibilities, but then I determined in the following months that I like to explore on my own. I like to bump into books, to see one that captures my eye on Amazon when I'm looking up another one on the site. I loved my visit to Big Lots because I went to the book section without any idea of what I wanted. I would just know when I found it, and I did in the two aforementioned books, as well as Dog Days by Jon Katz, Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland, and a few others. I didn't need a magazine to tell me what was coming up when I'd probably find out on my own anyway. I like the e-mails from Amazon, the "Best of the Month" ones because they gives me a small taste of what's available and to see what suits me. But it never pushes. I am my own literary explorer.
The only book critic I've ever liked has been Michael Dirda of The Washington Post, and that's because I had discovered his book, Readings: Essays and Literary Entertainment, while browsing Amazon and I loved learning about what sparked him to reading and why he's loved it for decades. I prefer an introduction like that. Show me a critic who started out as an avid reader, who devoured every single book they found, and I will read them, because their words will be suffused with that love, no matter how shoddy the book might be. Dirda's the only one I've found of that stripe so far, though I don't actively search for them.
I never found such personalities in London Review of Books. I learned of it by way of the personal ads it's apparently well-known for, selections that had been published in two books compiled by David Rose. I wanted to see what else this magazine offered and I had been impressed with the broadsheet size of it, that the writers within could concentrate so carefully on books. But what I found was concentration, never a sense of passion, which I suppose wouldn't fly with London Review of Books, unless there was an article by Alan Bennett, in which case it was the quiet passion I appreciated, of a man walking as I do through the vast universe of books, bending down to pick up whatever he finds in front of him, and reading in appreciation. But I never got that impression with the other articles in that magazine. It was as if those writers were sitting on a stately perch, looking down at all the books gathered below them, harumphing and sniffing haughtily about books they happened to read with two fingers perched at the spine, one in the spine and one behind it. It's intellectualism I cannot embrace. When I was reading How to Bake a Perfect Life while walking through the Walmart Supercenter with Mom and Meridith, and I got to the reunion of Ramona and Jonah, my heart swelled up big and I felt like I was going to be pulled up into the air, free to float and fly around in pure happiness. Right then, I wanted the entire world to know about this book. And that's the feeling I want to sense if I happen to read a book review. Dirda has that. Others don't.
So The London Review of Books was out too. But I wasn't searching for a new magazine to subscribe to in the way I was looking for a new hour-long show that I could be as passionate about as The West Wing. My go-to magazines are The New Yorker, Poets & Writers, The Oxford American, and Saveur, which is about food of all cultures and types, about cooking, about living life tasting everything you can and holding in your mouth that which you love so dearly. And it's not just the writing that expresses that, but also the photography. I've never seen food look like this, and only have there been a few times that I have seen it outside of a photograph, such as the Swedish meatballs at IKEA. There is a great comfort to such a dish, including the meatball gravy that goes on top of the mashed potatoes too, as well as the lingonberry sauce. It is like a security blanket. Saveur does that often, exploring what we are passionate about in food. The Oxford American does that with its Southern writing, with culture in much the same way, but publishes its own food issue never often enough.
I latched on to The New Yorker through John Boston, who had worked at The Signal for 30 years as its foremost columnist, humor and otherwise, to the extent that when we moved here and Mom saw his byline often in the paper, she thought he owned it. He was truly the heart and soul in this valley and it was an unforgivable crime when he left the paper after so much shoddy treatment. Boston had issues of The New Yorker on the bookshelves next to his desk, and let me take many of them home for my own perusal. I was fiercely attracted to the cartoons and a few writers, such as Patricia Marx, who is a terrific humorist, and whose second novel, Starting from Happy, I have but I still haven't read it yet. Other books have gotten in the way, also literally, because I'm not sure which stack it's in.
My subscription to The New Yorker lasts until September 2014, since I renewed it last year, and I don't intend to cancel it early, especially because of Amelia Lester, the 27-year-old managing editor, and her restaurant reviews. She lets the details of the restaurants speak for themselves, with slightly bouncy prose that I always enjoy. But what's always bothered me about The New Yorker, even though I know it's because of its prestige, are some writers of articles who get so overexcited about where they are. They're at The New Yorker! Their articles must sound like it with many exclamation points peppered throughout even though there's merely a comma or period there! They have to call their parents and let them know right away that they're in The New Yorker again!
Just write the article. Aim for the prestige that you want so much, but come on, an article about the AIDS epidemic probably should not have that kind of exclamation-point feeling in it. I enjoy that every week is a crapshoot, that I won't know what I'll be getting until I get that e-mail from The New Yorker detailing what's in the next issue. And when I open that e-mail, I cross my fingers and hope for a TV review from Nancy Franklin (my favorite TV critic) and a movie review from Anthony Lane (My favorite film critic, although there are weeks when Josh Bell, the film critic for Las Vegas Weekly supplants him). But I don't enjoy those articles that have that feeling of "OH MY GOD! I'M IN THE NEW YORKER!!!!!" I prefer subtlety in words. The power of an article will emanate from what you write about. John McPhee had no problem doing that. It works.
I get the same feeling from The American Poetry Review as I do with Poets & Writers, a devotion to the attempt at making the written word work in new ways, to reflect different minds, different cultures, different approaches to the world. Like Saveur, I feel like I can hold it close to me. It's mine. I will always find something in the pages to interest me. Just like there will always be food that's new to me to learn about in Saveur, and just like there's always a new method of writing to learn about in Poets & Writers, and just like there's parts of Southern culture new to me to learn about in The Oxford American, I think there will always be a new poem or a few in The American Poetry Review that will wrap its tendrils around my brain and heart, compelling me to reread those words, taking in each one, watching as it connects to the others, seeing what it creates that fires my imagination and makes my heart bloom. I get the same feeling while watching Jeopardy!, except for the emotional parts. I like studying how the questions were written, why they're written in those particular ways. It feels like The American Poetry Review will do that for me too, and why I subscribed for 3 years at $34.50. It's published 6 times a year, and that's a pretty good span of time to absorb the power of any poems that affect me so before the next issue comes out. And the balance of Saveur, The New Yorker, The Oxford American, Poets & Writers, and The American Poetry Review feels right. I can get what I want from all of them and feel satisfied every time.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
My Method for Reading "The New Yorker"
(This entry is in honor of my first issue of "The New Yorker" arriving in the mail yesterday)
It begins with a blue Pentel RSVP ballpoint click pen, ordered from officedepot.com because the stores in my area, and stores near my area, don't carry it. I always order a good-sized supply to last me six months. The pen is for circling book advertisements in the magazine that I want to look up on Amazon and possibly put on hold at my local library. It's also good for synopses of plays in the "Goings On About Town" section, to see if they're in print through Samuel French or another publisher of plays. If those also can be had through my local library, lucky me.
Depending on the week, the cover of the New Yorker may or may not demand more of my time than usual. This week, the Sept. 28 issue bears a cover of obsolete vehicles, as well as a chariot and a covered wagon creeping toward a parking garage that says "Museum Parking." For Bruce McCall's meticulous artwork, I look closer. I see the registration numbers on the tail of a flying car, the darkness inside the covered wagon, the stagecoach just entering the parking facility. The cover doesn't make any promises about the content of the issue, but if that's the only thing besides the cartoons (which I'll get to in a bit, of course) that's worth it in a given week, I'm actually fine with that.
I flip to the Table of Contents next, first looking for names I might recognize, such as Nancy Franklin, my favorite TV critic, this week musing over "Bored to Death" on HBO. Anthony Lane, my favorite film critic, is also in here this week, with reviews of "Coco Before Chanel," and "Walt & El Grupo." To me, Lane's writing is more sprightly. Whenever it's a David Denby week, I read with a drawn mouth, not likely to be amused or to chuckle. I hope for the best with the other articles, such as Susan Orlean writing about her experiences raising chickens, and George Packer with a profile of Richard Holbrooke, the special U.S. envoy for Afghanistan and Pakistan. I always hope for absorbing writing, the opportunity to learn something new about someone or some way of life, and also something to uncynically pull at my emotions. And look at that: To the left of the Table of Contents this week is an advertisement for the paperback edition of Dennis Lehane's novel, "The Given Day." I've already clicked the pen open and circled it. I checked it out of the library months ago in its massive hardcover form, but in my head, other books raucously demanded my attention. With the County of Los Angeles library system already in possession of 82 hardcover copies across various branches, and 91 more received but not yet assimilated into the system, it's doubtful more money will be invested in paperback editions, though it would be a mite more convenient for the sake of less wear and tear on canvas bags, namely my own, and the New Yorker tote bag I'm supposed to receive for having subscribed. I plan to press a customer service representative about this matter soon, because I thought it would come before my subscription officially began. Anyway...
The "Contributors" section on page 4, explaining who each writer is and what they have written lately, is always good for more circling with my pen. For example, I noticed just now that Bruce McCall has written a children's book called "Marveltown" that I've just looked up on Amazon that's truly as beautifully drawn as his New Yorker cover. My sister reads these kinds of books to our two dogs all the time, so later, I'll see if any of the county libraries have it available.
I always read "The Mail" page, better known in newspapers as "Letters to the Editor." But these letters are never angry or vitriolic. They may be indignant, but they're always smartly-written, and I now look forward to the issue that contains letters possibly related to articles from this issue to which I could immediately relate. There are three letters in this issue about Steven Brill's article from August 31st called "The Rubber Room," which I think I have somewhere in my internet bookmarks, but haven't read yet. But to totally relate, I'll have to wait.
In my previous entry, I mentioned purchasing old issues of The New Yorker from the Valencia library. In thoe issues, I always read the entire "Goings On About Town" section, no matter if the listings were about music I'm not fond of, or art galleries, or ballets and orchestras. When I read part of this issue online, I found myself bored by these listings and wondered if it meant that I felt it was a waste of time to read what didn't interest me. Turns out it may have been because those pages weren't in print, which to me is far more inviting. It feels a lot more personal than the techno-drone of the CPU below me. I've only recently been getting back into jazz, hoping that that might keep me sane while I write my share of "What If They Lived?", so I read the "Jazz and Standards" sub-section with particular relish now. (Sidenote: This valley must indeed be bowl-shaped. I'm sitting right here, 1:37 a.m., the Tivo paused, and I heard a freight train whistle outside without the windows being open. The tracks are miles from here.) I love, love, LOVE the "Tables for Two" restaurant review. I love reading about culinary possibilities and atmosphere and what a strategically-placed chair might do for ambience, just as a silly example. The movie listings are a given. How could I not want to read the brief review of 35 Shots of Rum?
I read all the columns in "The Talk of the Town." Dan Brown's obvious new explosive hit, Rod Blagojevich still hopelessly deluded, and Carrie Fisher touring the former Studio 54 where she had hung out, which is now the Broadway theatre at which she's performing "Wishful Drinking," her one-woman show, which was also an outstanding book. There's also a column about Ralph Nader's 700-page novel that strives for the most effective creativity, such as creating a character called Pawn Vanity to play off of Sean Hannity. That's not actually in the column, but what I heard on NPR when Scott Simon interviewed Ralph Nader on "Weekend Edition." To me, the name sounds weak, but if he captured and slightly twisted Hannity's characteristics, then he's done well. I'm not sure if I'm going to read his novel. Some aspects of it sound interesting, but there are thousands of books that caught my interest long before his. It'll take some time.
To cap off "The Talk of the Town," there's a column about bad financial regulation. And now I realize I've been doing this wrong from the start. This is more a point-by-point look at what's in The New Yorker this week rather than how I read it. Let me do it better right now.
I don't randomly flip through the magazine. I don't search for the cartoons because chances are I've already seen them on the New Yorker website. Outside of the cartoons, I've now made a personal rule not to peruse the upcoming issue on the site, so I can be surprised by it in the mail if there's anything really, really good. I need that more often because there's usually nothing interesting in the mail anyway. However, it should not be construed that I subscribed to The New Yorker only to get something interesting in the mail. The New Yorker has been interesting to me long before I subscribed. Ok, now to continue.
I'll only read an article in full if I'm continually interested. Last week, before my subscription begin, there was an article in that issue by business writer James B. Stewart called "Eight Days," about the beginning of the financial crisis. I only got through three pages because while this kind of finance might be important to someone, I was bored by the technical details. Getting older, I've begun to learn that I shouldn't try to force myself to finish what doesn't interest me. That was true of this article and so I left it.
Otherwise, I basically go cover to cover. In this week's issue, there are two poems. One is atop four columns of text through the middle of pages 46-47, in the midst of the Richard Holbrooke profile. I'm good at going from one book to another, returning to where I left off and knowing exactly what happened. But if the article in question has my full attention, I might leave the poem for after I'm done with it. Or I might see if there's a good stopping point in the article to read the poem, and then go back to the article.
With the "Fiction" section, I just hope for the best with each short story, and hope to be as dazzled as I was with Junot Diaz's "Wildwood." If the characters are prominently in my mind and I'm devoted to them, the writer has done well by me. "The Critics" section is dicey for me. I can't stand book reviews that delve into so much historical context that they seem to lose sight of the book that was actually the subject of the review. For example, Adam Gopnik presents an entire lecture series in words about Alfred Dreyfus, "a young Jewish artillery officer and family man, convicted of treason days earlier in a rushed court-martial...", beginning on page 72, and only when he reaches page 77 does he begin to examine the books about Dreyfus. I don't know a thing about Dreyfus, so I admit that the context may be useful, but can't he weave information about the books throughout these pages so it's not top-heavy with historical fact? The sub-section is called "Books." So write about the books!
I think that's why the "Briefly Noted" section is placed on the opposite page after the end of that treatise, besides it obviously being about books as well. But here, I suppose, is where I appreciate book reviews more because they're actual book reviews. There's even a review here of "The Fallen Sky" that gives a little historical information about explorer Robert Peary and then immediately gets into the review of the book. That's how I like it!
Though I don't have a great, winding interest in art, I still read the review there because maybe there's something in the artist's work that I could connect to, or maybe even investigate further on my own. I always go for the theater reviews because I'm looking to learn something from those, as I want to write my own plays, hopefully after this book is done. I have a few ideas, but I don't believe I've learned enough necessary to writing one. I don't intend to learn too much so as to ruin the whole thing, but just enough that could push me along to the page without crippling fear.
And, of course, there's the back page, announcing the "Cartoon Caption Contest," revealing the winning caption of a previous cartoon and showing this week's cartoon that needs a caption, as well as the finalists of another cartoon.
With all of this to fully unearth, why would I want to work on that book? Oh yeah, because it'll be published, because there's the chance of having my full name on it (instead of the standard middle "L"), and it'll be my first book. Well, half-book, but still a book. However, this issue is sitting in front of me, open to Susan Orlean's chicken adventures. It's already 2:55 a.m. I can always pore over actors' histories later today. Maybe I'll do that, but push myself hard to get some necessary work done on this book.
It begins with a blue Pentel RSVP ballpoint click pen, ordered from officedepot.com because the stores in my area, and stores near my area, don't carry it. I always order a good-sized supply to last me six months. The pen is for circling book advertisements in the magazine that I want to look up on Amazon and possibly put on hold at my local library. It's also good for synopses of plays in the "Goings On About Town" section, to see if they're in print through Samuel French or another publisher of plays. If those also can be had through my local library, lucky me.
Depending on the week, the cover of the New Yorker may or may not demand more of my time than usual. This week, the Sept. 28 issue bears a cover of obsolete vehicles, as well as a chariot and a covered wagon creeping toward a parking garage that says "Museum Parking." For Bruce McCall's meticulous artwork, I look closer. I see the registration numbers on the tail of a flying car, the darkness inside the covered wagon, the stagecoach just entering the parking facility. The cover doesn't make any promises about the content of the issue, but if that's the only thing besides the cartoons (which I'll get to in a bit, of course) that's worth it in a given week, I'm actually fine with that.
I flip to the Table of Contents next, first looking for names I might recognize, such as Nancy Franklin, my favorite TV critic, this week musing over "Bored to Death" on HBO. Anthony Lane, my favorite film critic, is also in here this week, with reviews of "Coco Before Chanel," and "Walt & El Grupo." To me, Lane's writing is more sprightly. Whenever it's a David Denby week, I read with a drawn mouth, not likely to be amused or to chuckle. I hope for the best with the other articles, such as Susan Orlean writing about her experiences raising chickens, and George Packer with a profile of Richard Holbrooke, the special U.S. envoy for Afghanistan and Pakistan. I always hope for absorbing writing, the opportunity to learn something new about someone or some way of life, and also something to uncynically pull at my emotions. And look at that: To the left of the Table of Contents this week is an advertisement for the paperback edition of Dennis Lehane's novel, "The Given Day." I've already clicked the pen open and circled it. I checked it out of the library months ago in its massive hardcover form, but in my head, other books raucously demanded my attention. With the County of Los Angeles library system already in possession of 82 hardcover copies across various branches, and 91 more received but not yet assimilated into the system, it's doubtful more money will be invested in paperback editions, though it would be a mite more convenient for the sake of less wear and tear on canvas bags, namely my own, and the New Yorker tote bag I'm supposed to receive for having subscribed. I plan to press a customer service representative about this matter soon, because I thought it would come before my subscription officially began. Anyway...
The "Contributors" section on page 4, explaining who each writer is and what they have written lately, is always good for more circling with my pen. For example, I noticed just now that Bruce McCall has written a children's book called "Marveltown" that I've just looked up on Amazon that's truly as beautifully drawn as his New Yorker cover. My sister reads these kinds of books to our two dogs all the time, so later, I'll see if any of the county libraries have it available.
I always read "The Mail" page, better known in newspapers as "Letters to the Editor." But these letters are never angry or vitriolic. They may be indignant, but they're always smartly-written, and I now look forward to the issue that contains letters possibly related to articles from this issue to which I could immediately relate. There are three letters in this issue about Steven Brill's article from August 31st called "The Rubber Room," which I think I have somewhere in my internet bookmarks, but haven't read yet. But to totally relate, I'll have to wait.
In my previous entry, I mentioned purchasing old issues of The New Yorker from the Valencia library. In thoe issues, I always read the entire "Goings On About Town" section, no matter if the listings were about music I'm not fond of, or art galleries, or ballets and orchestras. When I read part of this issue online, I found myself bored by these listings and wondered if it meant that I felt it was a waste of time to read what didn't interest me. Turns out it may have been because those pages weren't in print, which to me is far more inviting. It feels a lot more personal than the techno-drone of the CPU below me. I've only recently been getting back into jazz, hoping that that might keep me sane while I write my share of "What If They Lived?", so I read the "Jazz and Standards" sub-section with particular relish now. (Sidenote: This valley must indeed be bowl-shaped. I'm sitting right here, 1:37 a.m., the Tivo paused, and I heard a freight train whistle outside without the windows being open. The tracks are miles from here.) I love, love, LOVE the "Tables for Two" restaurant review. I love reading about culinary possibilities and atmosphere and what a strategically-placed chair might do for ambience, just as a silly example. The movie listings are a given. How could I not want to read the brief review of 35 Shots of Rum?
I read all the columns in "The Talk of the Town." Dan Brown's obvious new explosive hit, Rod Blagojevich still hopelessly deluded, and Carrie Fisher touring the former Studio 54 where she had hung out, which is now the Broadway theatre at which she's performing "Wishful Drinking," her one-woman show, which was also an outstanding book. There's also a column about Ralph Nader's 700-page novel that strives for the most effective creativity, such as creating a character called Pawn Vanity to play off of Sean Hannity. That's not actually in the column, but what I heard on NPR when Scott Simon interviewed Ralph Nader on "Weekend Edition." To me, the name sounds weak, but if he captured and slightly twisted Hannity's characteristics, then he's done well. I'm not sure if I'm going to read his novel. Some aspects of it sound interesting, but there are thousands of books that caught my interest long before his. It'll take some time.
To cap off "The Talk of the Town," there's a column about bad financial regulation. And now I realize I've been doing this wrong from the start. This is more a point-by-point look at what's in The New Yorker this week rather than how I read it. Let me do it better right now.
I don't randomly flip through the magazine. I don't search for the cartoons because chances are I've already seen them on the New Yorker website. Outside of the cartoons, I've now made a personal rule not to peruse the upcoming issue on the site, so I can be surprised by it in the mail if there's anything really, really good. I need that more often because there's usually nothing interesting in the mail anyway. However, it should not be construed that I subscribed to The New Yorker only to get something interesting in the mail. The New Yorker has been interesting to me long before I subscribed. Ok, now to continue.
I'll only read an article in full if I'm continually interested. Last week, before my subscription begin, there was an article in that issue by business writer James B. Stewart called "Eight Days," about the beginning of the financial crisis. I only got through three pages because while this kind of finance might be important to someone, I was bored by the technical details. Getting older, I've begun to learn that I shouldn't try to force myself to finish what doesn't interest me. That was true of this article and so I left it.
Otherwise, I basically go cover to cover. In this week's issue, there are two poems. One is atop four columns of text through the middle of pages 46-47, in the midst of the Richard Holbrooke profile. I'm good at going from one book to another, returning to where I left off and knowing exactly what happened. But if the article in question has my full attention, I might leave the poem for after I'm done with it. Or I might see if there's a good stopping point in the article to read the poem, and then go back to the article.
With the "Fiction" section, I just hope for the best with each short story, and hope to be as dazzled as I was with Junot Diaz's "Wildwood." If the characters are prominently in my mind and I'm devoted to them, the writer has done well by me. "The Critics" section is dicey for me. I can't stand book reviews that delve into so much historical context that they seem to lose sight of the book that was actually the subject of the review. For example, Adam Gopnik presents an entire lecture series in words about Alfred Dreyfus, "a young Jewish artillery officer and family man, convicted of treason days earlier in a rushed court-martial...", beginning on page 72, and only when he reaches page 77 does he begin to examine the books about Dreyfus. I don't know a thing about Dreyfus, so I admit that the context may be useful, but can't he weave information about the books throughout these pages so it's not top-heavy with historical fact? The sub-section is called "Books." So write about the books!
I think that's why the "Briefly Noted" section is placed on the opposite page after the end of that treatise, besides it obviously being about books as well. But here, I suppose, is where I appreciate book reviews more because they're actual book reviews. There's even a review here of "The Fallen Sky" that gives a little historical information about explorer Robert Peary and then immediately gets into the review of the book. That's how I like it!
Though I don't have a great, winding interest in art, I still read the review there because maybe there's something in the artist's work that I could connect to, or maybe even investigate further on my own. I always go for the theater reviews because I'm looking to learn something from those, as I want to write my own plays, hopefully after this book is done. I have a few ideas, but I don't believe I've learned enough necessary to writing one. I don't intend to learn too much so as to ruin the whole thing, but just enough that could push me along to the page without crippling fear.
And, of course, there's the back page, announcing the "Cartoon Caption Contest," revealing the winning caption of a previous cartoon and showing this week's cartoon that needs a caption, as well as the finalists of another cartoon.
With all of this to fully unearth, why would I want to work on that book? Oh yeah, because it'll be published, because there's the chance of having my full name on it (instead of the standard middle "L"), and it'll be my first book. Well, half-book, but still a book. However, this issue is sitting in front of me, open to Susan Orlean's chicken adventures. It's already 2:55 a.m. I can always pore over actors' histories later today. Maybe I'll do that, but push myself hard to get some necessary work done on this book.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Hey, Maybe The New Yorker Will....Nope. Maybe Tomorrow. Nada. Maybe Next Week.
Logically, my subscription to The New Yorker has been a long time coming. I discovered it while working at The Signal in my second year, for John Boston, eminent, funny, and important columnist. He was what kept The Signal alive, what gave it a true sense of community. After he left, it got worse. People with really no sense of the history of this valley or no interest in it began to inhabit the desks in the newsroom. Some weren't even locals, but then, in a valley of nearly 200,000, not every one of them are qualified newspaper writers. I admit that.
During the time I worked for John, I always eyed the bookshelves he had against the cubicle wall next to his desk. A lot of magazines. Writer's Digest, a few issues of Time Magazine, and a whole lot of New Yorkers. I'd never heard of it before this, but once I tucked into an issue, I loved it. I loved the expanse of culture within the pages, the goings-on in New York City I couldn't attend. I read about restaurants I probably wouldn't go to, Broadway shows that would probably be closed by the time I got there, jazz musicians who would likely be far from New York if I could attend some concert. I also loved the articles, detailed, thoroughly-researched pieces on whatever topic caught the fancy of the editors that week. It's still the only magazine to actually make me interested in the intricacies of finance and the inner workings of the Supreme Court.
Many times, he'd give me the issues he was done reading. I let too many sit around, never read them, but I just liked the feeling of them being there, especially the covers and the cartoons, though those have never been the only reasons I like The New Yorker. I remember one day, about two years ago, when my sister had been at College of the Canyons, and she'd always check the free magazine table at the library there at my persistent request. She came home that day with 42 issues in her backpack.
Any time I find old issues at the Valencia library, I buy them. 10 cents per magazine, 15 for a dollar. A good deal, until they pile up too fast for me to read then ditch.
About a year ago (I think), I decided to pay $179 for the Complete New Yorker Hard Drive, containing all the issues from 1925 to April 2007, bundled with an update disc that would put more issues into the drive, up to April 2008. Amazing stuff, with all the pages of every issue scanned in and a searchable database, along with the function of creating your own reading lists. About a month ago, nearly burned out on this book project (I have got to stop working on it every day, now that the manuscript deadline's been extended to April), I searched the database for "pinball," "Florida," "Mark Twain," and what I think were dozens of other terms related to my interests. It's an outstanding program which I wish I could spend more time on, if not for all the books I want to read, some New Yorker-related, such as Secret Ingredients, a compilation of food and drink-related writing.
You'd think these would be the reasons I decided to subscribe to The New Yorker. Certainly there was enough motivation. However, none of those were the reason for subscribing. It happened in June, when my mom, my sister, and I went with my dad on his middle school's 8th grade end-of-the-year trip to Disneyland. At that time, I didn't think of subscribing to The New Yorker, but recently, thinking back to that day, this is what made me do it:
The night before, I was debating whether to bring any books with me. Maybe "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" in paperback, maybe "Cold Fire," my favorite Dean Koontz novel. But I thought of the risk of possibly losing the books. Not that the school buses to Disneyland were insecure. I remembered from the year before last how what you brought on the bus remained on the bus. But I still didn't want to take any chances, so I took two issues of The New Yorker with me. Coupled with the newspapers to be had from the copy room at my dad's school, there'd be enough reading material to tide me over until we got there, particularly because I hadn't been roped into being a chaperone this year. My sister was, though, but she didn't mind.
On the way to Anaheim, I flipped through the newspapers (The Daily News, Los Angeles Times), comics, TV listings, and an occasional article, finishing that in about 10 minutes. I opened one of the New Yorkers, from June 11, 2007 (their "Summer Fiction" issue) and hit upon an article that would sustain me until we got there. It was by D.T. Max, about the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center at the University of Texas at Austin, and the literary treasures stored there, as well as Tom Staley, current director of the center.
It may not seem like much reading when seen on the New Yorker website: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/06/11/070611fa_fact_max?currentPage=all
But in the magazine, there were pages and pages, and while reading, I re-read certain passages I liked, admiring the word usage and the story as well. D.T. Max pulls readers right into his story, never letting you go until you're done. And by the time I was done, we were nearing Disneyland. It wasn't so much that the article had taken away the obstacle of time for me in waiting to get to Disneyland, but that I didn't even entirely notice I was on the bus. I glanced out the window at the freeway, saw some cars turn on to the exits, but didn't pay as much attention as I usually do. I was inside this article, with Staley as he sought rare, prized writerly items, such as 130 letters Graham Greene had written to a foreign correspondent.
I want more of those experiences. I love my hard drive, I like the Digital Edition on the New Yorker website that allows me to peruse the latest issue while I wait impatiently for my first issue to arrive in the mail, but it's not a habit I could maintain. I know I can't get issues from 1925 at all, and that's fine. The New Yorker hard drive program's windows are big enough to envelope me in whatever article I'm reading. But I love the print edition because of that one article. I like holding the magazine, circling book titles that interest me, circling synopses of plays that interest me, source material that I want to seek out, hoping that it's in print. I don't anticipate much in the mail anymore, since I know what'll be in those Netflix envelopes, and I don't request many DVDs anymore from PR firms representing the studios and other DVD labels for reviewing. But this, I'm waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting. I want my first issue to come in the mail already. For now, I hope the mailman will be careful with it when he puts it in the mailbox, but I want to open the mailbox already and find it there and experience that same excitement I had when I read that article on the bus. I know it's possible with The New Yorker. Really, anything's possible with The New Yorker.
Addendum: D.T. Max's article got me to the entrance of the parking garage at Disneyland. "Wildwood," Junot Diaz's short story in that issue, got me past the booths in one section of the garage (where the security people give the necessary parking passes), and out to the bus parking area, keeping me occupied until we parked and all the kids had gotten off the bus.
During the time I worked for John, I always eyed the bookshelves he had against the cubicle wall next to his desk. A lot of magazines. Writer's Digest, a few issues of Time Magazine, and a whole lot of New Yorkers. I'd never heard of it before this, but once I tucked into an issue, I loved it. I loved the expanse of culture within the pages, the goings-on in New York City I couldn't attend. I read about restaurants I probably wouldn't go to, Broadway shows that would probably be closed by the time I got there, jazz musicians who would likely be far from New York if I could attend some concert. I also loved the articles, detailed, thoroughly-researched pieces on whatever topic caught the fancy of the editors that week. It's still the only magazine to actually make me interested in the intricacies of finance and the inner workings of the Supreme Court.
Many times, he'd give me the issues he was done reading. I let too many sit around, never read them, but I just liked the feeling of them being there, especially the covers and the cartoons, though those have never been the only reasons I like The New Yorker. I remember one day, about two years ago, when my sister had been at College of the Canyons, and she'd always check the free magazine table at the library there at my persistent request. She came home that day with 42 issues in her backpack.
Any time I find old issues at the Valencia library, I buy them. 10 cents per magazine, 15 for a dollar. A good deal, until they pile up too fast for me to read then ditch.
About a year ago (I think), I decided to pay $179 for the Complete New Yorker Hard Drive, containing all the issues from 1925 to April 2007, bundled with an update disc that would put more issues into the drive, up to April 2008. Amazing stuff, with all the pages of every issue scanned in and a searchable database, along with the function of creating your own reading lists. About a month ago, nearly burned out on this book project (I have got to stop working on it every day, now that the manuscript deadline's been extended to April), I searched the database for "pinball," "Florida," "Mark Twain," and what I think were dozens of other terms related to my interests. It's an outstanding program which I wish I could spend more time on, if not for all the books I want to read, some New Yorker-related, such as Secret Ingredients, a compilation of food and drink-related writing.
You'd think these would be the reasons I decided to subscribe to The New Yorker. Certainly there was enough motivation. However, none of those were the reason for subscribing. It happened in June, when my mom, my sister, and I went with my dad on his middle school's 8th grade end-of-the-year trip to Disneyland. At that time, I didn't think of subscribing to The New Yorker, but recently, thinking back to that day, this is what made me do it:
The night before, I was debating whether to bring any books with me. Maybe "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" in paperback, maybe "Cold Fire," my favorite Dean Koontz novel. But I thought of the risk of possibly losing the books. Not that the school buses to Disneyland were insecure. I remembered from the year before last how what you brought on the bus remained on the bus. But I still didn't want to take any chances, so I took two issues of The New Yorker with me. Coupled with the newspapers to be had from the copy room at my dad's school, there'd be enough reading material to tide me over until we got there, particularly because I hadn't been roped into being a chaperone this year. My sister was, though, but she didn't mind.
On the way to Anaheim, I flipped through the newspapers (The Daily News, Los Angeles Times), comics, TV listings, and an occasional article, finishing that in about 10 minutes. I opened one of the New Yorkers, from June 11, 2007 (their "Summer Fiction" issue) and hit upon an article that would sustain me until we got there. It was by D.T. Max, about the Harry Ransom Humanities Research Center at the University of Texas at Austin, and the literary treasures stored there, as well as Tom Staley, current director of the center.
It may not seem like much reading when seen on the New Yorker website: http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2007/06/11/070611fa_fact_max?currentPage=all
But in the magazine, there were pages and pages, and while reading, I re-read certain passages I liked, admiring the word usage and the story as well. D.T. Max pulls readers right into his story, never letting you go until you're done. And by the time I was done, we were nearing Disneyland. It wasn't so much that the article had taken away the obstacle of time for me in waiting to get to Disneyland, but that I didn't even entirely notice I was on the bus. I glanced out the window at the freeway, saw some cars turn on to the exits, but didn't pay as much attention as I usually do. I was inside this article, with Staley as he sought rare, prized writerly items, such as 130 letters Graham Greene had written to a foreign correspondent.
I want more of those experiences. I love my hard drive, I like the Digital Edition on the New Yorker website that allows me to peruse the latest issue while I wait impatiently for my first issue to arrive in the mail, but it's not a habit I could maintain. I know I can't get issues from 1925 at all, and that's fine. The New Yorker hard drive program's windows are big enough to envelope me in whatever article I'm reading. But I love the print edition because of that one article. I like holding the magazine, circling book titles that interest me, circling synopses of plays that interest me, source material that I want to seek out, hoping that it's in print. I don't anticipate much in the mail anymore, since I know what'll be in those Netflix envelopes, and I don't request many DVDs anymore from PR firms representing the studios and other DVD labels for reviewing. But this, I'm waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting. I want my first issue to come in the mail already. For now, I hope the mailman will be careful with it when he puts it in the mailbox, but I want to open the mailbox already and find it there and experience that same excitement I had when I read that article on the bus. I know it's possible with The New Yorker. Really, anything's possible with The New Yorker.
Addendum: D.T. Max's article got me to the entrance of the parking garage at Disneyland. "Wildwood," Junot Diaz's short story in that issue, got me past the booths in one section of the garage (where the security people give the necessary parking passes), and out to the bus parking area, keeping me occupied until we parked and all the kids had gotten off the bus.
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