The perfect dining companion must be reliable, they must be engaging, and they must have the ability to traverse a wide variety of subject matter. My perfect companion, then, is constantly in my car, bound and gagged in the back seat, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Not only that, my perfect companion is hilarious at times, instructive at times, and always willing to watch me dab cream cheese from my upper lip. My perfect companion, as you can see, is a magazine. That magazine is The New Yorker:
And there I was today, reading my New Yorker, enjoying its company as always. First there was a cartoon or two, the letters to the editor, then, of course, the “Table For Two” feature. I finished things off with Anthony Lane’s review of “Van Helsing.” I flipped the magazine over, contented, ready to rise and go when I cast my eyes down casually only to behold, horrified, the following:
My New Yorker–my beloved New Yorker–had gone the route of Fredo Corleone, not to mention Brutus. (Yes, they were both on Atkins). Oh why, David Remnick? (<--Editor of The New Yorker). How could you sell out to the Atkins people? It's a cold carb-hating slap in the face. I thought I could trust you! You watched me eat a thousand bagels! The hallowed pages of E.B. White, James Thurber, and Roz Chast are now tainted with the blood of countless carbohydrates. A pumpernickel pox on all your printing presses!