Posts Tagged ‘The New Yorker’

Seperated at Birth or Snowboarding vs the New Yorker

Wednesday, October 13th, 2010

There are a few things that I will always be backing:

  • Snowboardering
  • Feingold
  • The New Yorker
  • Bikes
  • Agua Clara
  • Clara
  • Coffee
  • Booze
  • Wisconsin
  • Spanish
  • the Cyberspaces

So after a full day of thinking about snowboards and consulting my uncolorblinded people about what may or may not work for proper costume this year I settled in for the evening with a copy of the New Yorker. For those of you not in-the-know there is a proper way to read the NYer.

First you flip through, peeping the articles and reading the cartoons. Then you read The Financial Page, because Surowiecki is a goddamned beast. Then Shouts and Murmurs. If you’re reading before you go to sleep, I suggest hitting up the Talk of the Town or the Cinema/Theater/Music articles in the back. After all that, you get into the feature articles.

Anyway, I’m ripping through el NYer and take note of an Edward Koren cartoon, because he’s got a distinctive style. Then I move on with life. Then a couple days later I’m watching some webcast of Frends running around some condo in their underwears and I can’t help but think that Jack and/or Luke Mitrani are going to have to start paying likeness rights to Edward Koren.

Now, Burton, INC, circle R, circle C, Superscripta TM, wholly owned subsidiary of JOCK SHOES, will claim the Mitrani’s owe nothing to Eddie K, but they will also tell you that the 3-hole insert pattern was the best, so was the 2X,  until we invented the ICS rev/slider system. Also winged highbacks are the way of the future. But I’m just going to drop this sizzler here and let you decide for yourself:

It’s pretty obvious now isn’t it?

Oh what’s that? You want more proof? Well I did some top secret research and found this picture of Jack or Luke (there’s a lot of noise in the picture so I can’t be sure which one it is), taken in the Mitrani home about ten years ago. Check it:

I’m pretty sure this case is closed.

WednesdayTF?

Wednesday, April 28th, 2010

1. I broke my own rule about letting the bloggins go for four days without an update. This does not make me happy, but I had a guest in from out of town.

2. Somehow Glee is still on tv. But it seems to have forgotten that it’s a damn musical, and that it cannot take itself seriously. This is how things go to shit. Shelf that crap next to Cop Rock. In related news: WTF Lost? A rerun?

3. Looks like somebody had the old “Milwaukee Breakfast”:

4. Maybe you missed my unemployment tips? If you did, they’re over at Yobeat.com for your reading pleasure.

5. I’ve got to email a girl about a cork fedora, which might be like seeing a man about a dog.

6. I got this letter from the New Yorker yesterday:

What’s funny is that my subscription doesn’t run out until August of 2011, and I pay nothing near that price. But I called into to make sure I was still on the cheap reads lists and I’m all good. Sarah a the subscription office was a peach. I’m now subscribed through August of 2016. (I have included the ruler for scale.)

7. I’m back into Murakami.

8. I guess this is real. Some people should have their lives revoked. You’ll dance to anything by any bunch of stupid Europeans who come over here
with their big hairdos intent on taking our money instead of giving your cash, where it belongs, to a decent American artist like myself.

Fridang-a-lang

Friday, April 9th, 2010

First off, this dude passed away:

And if you didn’t know, he’s the same guy who brought us this:

I heard this bit on the radio this morning about how he went from punk rock to the writing for the New Yorker. In my impressively hanged-over mind I assumed he was a staff writer. I was shook. Even bigger than when I found out that vocal man from Bad Religion got his PhD from Cornell. Or that Milo went to college but then got his PhD in biochemistry from the UW Madison. That’s way radder than finding out Hosoi went to prison and out Jesussed.

Anyway, I was wrong so we can all go back to doing what we do on a Friday afternoon.

Like The New Yorker could find anyone more punk than Malcolm Gladwell or Seymour Hersh. C’mon.