I struggle to laugh. I rarely watch sitcoms. Comedic films don’t interest me. It is rare that I am not offended by comedians. The New Yorker comic strips are a sure fire giggle maker. They are clever and topical. The drawings are sophisticated. When I am in a dumpy mood, these gems make me smile.
My favorite film critic was Pauline Kael. Her New Yorker reviews gave me original and unique perspectives on movies. She was an early admirer of Barbra Streisand. That was enough to win my admiration.
I feel a snobbish sophistication when I read The New Yorker. Theater snippets tease me to fly to New York. The urban magazine package flies off each page. I was born in Manhattan and moved to Los Angeles 52 years ago. The magazine satisfies my inherent love of the city. My ten aunts and uncles haunt me as I flip pages. My father’s early death in 1965 awakens as I scan the museum and theater listing. We lived in Long Island but he took us into the city each weekend. We inherited his love of Broadway and the dynamic architecture of the Main Library, Pennsylvania Train Station, Radio City Musical Hall, Central Park and Metropolitan Museum of Art. The magazine is a link.