Okay, I've calmed down just a bit.
The New Yorker has been right up there with U2 as something I love for most of my life. I built up a collection of hundreds of issues from the 40s to the early 2000's. I finally had to read and discard many of them before my most current move five years ago. Throwing magazine files full of these issues that I collected from a back issues store in Boston and an antique show in the Chicago area and later, eBay, was so, so difficult.
The New Yorker has published some of the finest short stories, nonfiction, poetry and yes, cartoons ever published in this country. In Cold Blood first appeared in its pages. So did Hiroshima, which kids still read for classroom assignments. J.D. Salinger's short stories found a home here, as did John Updike's and John Cheever's. Roger Angell's baseball articles. Calvin Trillin's flawless articles on anything that struck his fancy. Charles Addams' cartoons. And on, and, and on.
And now, for this magazine that was the gold standard for writing to publish, on its website, this crock of shit review is so damn disappointing to this longtime reader. U2 has provided me with many of the best experiences of my life, from the JT tour stop at MSG to ZOO TV At Yankee Stadium to that surprise concert in Brooklyn to mark HTDAAB's release, and to see them trashed so thoroughly, so downright hatefully by a writer at the magazine I spent countless hours reading and collecting and enjoying...screw you, New Yorker. Screw. You.
Sent from my iPad using U2 Interference
