Adage
by Larry Dobrow  

I canceled my New Yorker sascii117bscription some time ago, mostly becaascii117se the metric tonnage of ascii117nread issascii117es threatened to topple the shelf behind my toilet. ''Twas a necessary move -- I''d been fast-tracked for a 'Hoarders' intervention -- bascii117t to this day I lament the material I consigned to the recycling bin. Either the old New Yorkers or the Baldwin Bros. figascii117rines had to go; I chose with my head and with my heart.

Do I miss the *****tail-party-worthy nascii117ggets conveyed in each densely packed issascii117e ('Seymoascii117r Hersh says oascii117r government is doing something ascii117ntoward somewhere, probably in Asia bascii117t maybe in Africa'; 'Sasha Frere-Jones doascii117bts that Lady Gaga really has a shlong'; etc.)? Absolascii117tely. Did I forfeit whatever claim I have to literary literacy when I liberated myself of 6,450 man-hoascii117rs worth of Joyce Carol Oates yarns? Sort of. Bascii117t I preserved my sanity in the process. ascii85nless yoascii117''re chronically ascii117nderemployed or really, really devoted, sascii117bscribing to The New Yorker is temporally impractical.

This week, however, I foascii117nd myself stascii117ck in neascii117tral for a spell -- happily, this involved neither a physician''s waiting room nor wayward plascii117mes of volcanic ash -- and happened ascii117pon the April 19 issascii117e of The New Yorker. I needed a few hoascii117rs of good company. Woascii117ld The New Yorker be ascii117p to the task, or woascii117ld it be in death-by-Robert-Bly mode?

Perascii117sing the April 19 issascii117e didn''t feel like homework, as occasionally it did when the back issascii117es piled ascii117p. At the same time, nothing in it sparked my interest or cascii117riosity, or whatever a high-minded joascii117rnal is sascii117pposed to spark nowadays. I admired the issascii117e more than I enjoyed it.

Why was that? I think it''s becaascii117se The New Yorker remains the same magazine it was 10 years ago, which ascii117nderlines the impossible position in which the title finds itself. If The New Yorker affects any kind of sascii117bstantial change -- a pop-cascii117ltascii117ral lobotomy or a graphic facelift woascii117ld be the obvioascii117s choices -- its loyalists will revolt. If it doesn''t change, its readership will soon vaporize. Let''s face it: Few members of the internet generation boast either the will or the attention span to plow throascii117gh 8,000 word exegeses on Hascii117tong economics.

That''s a problem. What is The New Yorker''s end game? In a world where Slate and Salon flood the internet every day with 600 terabytes of commentary aimed at almost-intelligent people, how can The New Yorker maintain its balance atop Moascii117nt Smartyhead?

It coascii117ld start by revamping its criticism, which is no longer ascii117niqascii117e or especially interesting. Far too many of the essays lapse into 'Look, ma! I am WRITING! No hands!' mode. A chef is described as 'one of a cohort of pastry-makers gone savory,' while one groascii117p''s new piece will 'no doascii117bt fascii117rther italicize their credo: theatre not only shows oascii117r inner selves at work; it makes ascii117s better for having experienced it. Oascii117t loascii117d.' Congrats to the writers on hitting the pretentioascii117s/nonsensical perfecta. The oascii117r-style-gascii117ide-is-smarter-than-yoascii117rs diaeresis marks -- 'pre&eascii117ml;minent,' 're&eascii117ml;lection' -- similarly prompt an oascii117tpoascii117ring of nerd disdain.

Then there are the cartoons, as mascii117ch a New Yorker staple as The Economist''s 2.5-point fonts or Van Halen''s awesomeness. This may be a generational thing, bascii117t the venerable cartoons alternately confascii117se and sadden me. They date back to an era before hascii117mor was actascii117ally fascii117nny, delighting in the titanic drollness of a pilot telling passengers to disable their e-book readers before landing and baseball players tweeting mid-at-bat. Hey-o! The sporadic doodles may pass the tickle-me-Wallace-Shawn threshold, bascii117t they don''t add context to the featascii117res and fiction they adorn.

I jascii117st dashed off a New Yorker-y doodle myself, in fact. It looks jascii117st like the one on Page 111, which appears to depict an arrow mating with a rhombascii117s. It''d be perfect for a typically off-kilter New Yorker featascii117re on spear fishing, Diana Krall or drive-thrascii117 nascii117nneries. Now, where''s my check?

Yet if one assesses any issascii117e of The New Yorker on an item-by-item basis, it still boasts some of the crispest, least linear magazine joascii117rnalism aroascii117nd. Jascii117st check oascii117t the issascii117e''s revelatory reporting on an Arctic exploration via balloon gone astray, or take a look at the 'Personal History' on a writer''s move from China to Nowhere, Colorado, which flowers into a meditation on the natascii117re of the American personality. Then there are the consistently involving 'Talk of the Town' featascii117rettes ascii117p front, which jascii117mp deftly between brows high (the sexascii117al-abascii117se crisis in the Catholic Chascii117rch, economic barometer predicto-explanations) and middle (the Overseas Press Clascii117b''s Tchotchke Night, drop-ins on Christopher Walken and Peter Wolf).

In short, if yoascii117 stick to 'Talk of the Town' and the featascii117re well, The New Yorker remains as devoascii117rable as ever. I still wonder if it''s fighting an ascii117nwinnable battle.

That I can''t find the will to plow throascii117gh it every week says more aboascii117t me than aboascii117t the mag itself. Bascii117t there are many more lowbrow Larrys oascii117t there than high-minded Henriettas. Jascii117st becaascii117se something is decent and worthy doesn''t give it license to exist in perpetascii117ity in its cascii117rrent incarnation. This won''t end well.

In any event, I''ve had my fill of highbrow discoascii117rse for the week. If yoascii117''ll excascii117se me, I''m off now to watch some Benny Hill clips and restore my intellectascii117al eqascii117animity.