I’ve purchased The New Yorker magazine for years, even though I live 2,713 miles from New York.
I don’t even care that much for the content. New York City’s “Talk of the Town” does not play well with the banter going on in Washoe Valley, Nevada. The magazine’s political viewpoints seem one-sided. It’s rare that I really get hooked by the fiction pieces. It strikes me that the authors are desperately attempting to be too relevant or too clever or too smart. I get lost.
So why do I buy The New Yorker? It’s all about the cartoons. They are laugh-out-loud fabulous. I love them. They even have a cartoon caption contest on the last page where readers can come up with the perfect words to match the cartoon image.
What does all of this say about me?
I’m not real sophisticated.
I’m not very political.
But, at my age, I still love to laugh out loud.