I was reading the New Yorker when I came across this lovely little gem. Now the poems in the New Yorker are usually unimpressive (they just have no rhythm, said the old guy in my last community theater play)... but this one was ridiculous. Your aluminum softball baseball bat drooped like a penis when you saw your abusive dad? That's not just a shitty forced metaphor, it's also not even that interesting. It reminds me of a guy I know, who we'll call bi, who just sent me a text message. Bi's effort to be interesting is to be shocking. While this is fun from a distance, it doesn't hold up one-on-one. Insert your forced penis metaphor here.
Lately I've been noticing that some of the articles in the New Yorker are actually bad. I can't tell if this is some sort of graduation on my part, finally rising beyond simple worship of the magazine's liberal elitism and show of polish... or if I've read so much that I've grown too elitist.
Song of the Day: Beastie Boys - The New Style
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