there's a time and place for everything
Oh, Roland Barthes. On the death of his mother. Er. Nevermind.
Or at least that's what I say when I'm moved to hurl the magazine across the room. Still, I'm a loyal reader, and I invite you to gripe about the always liberal, but never radical, New Yorker magazine. Review the reviews, read the news and complain about all the pretentious nonsense.