I usually don’t mind the fact that my house is weekly littered with inserts from The New Yorker. I’ve subscribed for years and it’s always been worth roughly a buck an issue if only for the covers and cartoons.
But the April 21 ’08 issue was so fat (especially for a non-double) I was horrified that I’d open it to the stank of some cologne or perfume.
Instead I found a super-sticky envelope with the absolute most tacky, sellouty bow-like MasterCard sticker-seal and a message beneath reading:
One-of-a-kind, commissioned portrain of you, painted by Julian Schnabel: priceless? Give or take a few cents.
Look inside to see if your search is over.
Come on now, New Yorker, you’re supposed to be the last great print periodical for all eternity. Don’t piss me off!
