The New Yorker
The SO loves me so much that when I asked for a subscription to the New Yorker, she relented. I had grown tired of reading Entertainment Weekly. Tired of seeing white actors and actresses with no pigmentation be made into the image of gods and goddesses. Tired of seeing how light can be manipulated so that bone white skin becomes tanned golden skin. Sick of the barely grade three level language that posed as high thought. If one is going to insult, use a simile or a metaphor.
But, seeing that I get attached to newspapers and magazines, I still have some from 1991 in my apartment, I told the wife that I will have a four week notice on all magazines. Four weeks, and if I have not read them, out to the recycling room they go.
But how do you let go of a wonderful story? I suppose I kept them because I wanted to hold onto the image or the story. But after holding on for fifteen years, what do you get for the story? I never read them again or looked at them. Nope, never touched them in the least.
So, out with the old and in with the new. I have four weeks to read a magazine. The plus side is that I can ignore all the sad stories. For example, last week's magazine had the story of an Iranian couple in Iran. Husband and wife were journalists. Well, you know, there is no freedom for the pess in Iran. You can just see what is on the horizon for those two.