Magazine party!!!

I contracted some sort of illness, not to mention the usual case of nervous exhaustion, during my Alabama sojourn (more on that later… uh, maybe), so today it was Make-Your-Own-Sanatorium at the Pistol residence. That means sunbathing on the piazza, buttered noodles, and magazines.

Boy, am I psyched for this year’s Summer Fiction issue of the New Yorker. Cute cover, and stories I actually want to read. Junot Diaz! Dude hasn’t had anything out in forever! Denis Johnson! Did going Christian make him soft? We’ll see. Miranda July! Against all odds, I really like her! I even feel not-that-jealous about the Debut Fiction, because it’s by a dude, and he’s Asian, and there’s no photo!

Can you feel how I’m spurting love and goodwill from all my pores? It’s amazing. Also, I maybe have a fever.

It turned out I was too weak to open the New Yorker. I looked at Domino instead. Mostly boring, but there were a couple of chuckles to be had.

First off, page 95:

Please take a look at the children.

Okay, so their names are Conrad and Amory, they are aggressively blond/ descendents of the famous interior designer David Hicks/ pictured here in the living room of their parents’ house in the Bahamas… AND YET, tell me those kids aren’t total thugs!

Need a close-up?

It’s the fist bump… the shirtlessness… the precocious muscle tone… the rakish lollipop sticks… the dead-eyed gazes… It’s everything.

Don’t the parents look nervous? They’re all, WHAT HAVE WE WROUGHT? They’d better start that rehab-and-abortions fund RIGHT NOW.

Page 153’s good too. Look at this guy:

Pretty gay, right? Well, no surprise there. This is a decorating magazine. But the caption. I know you can read it. But I think we need a close-up.

IS THAT NOT THE GAYEST THING YOU’VE EVER READ?

And, brilliant in its gayness?

A labradoodle named Sport???

It’s almost too brilliant. I don’t know if I even believe in it. Like maybe there’s a genius creative director behind the whole thing, and there is no bespoke suited Michael Smith who wears his watch over his shirtsleeve and loves to “mix everything up” so long as the background color’s the same and the scale’s varied, and there is no fantastically named dog, and it’s all a great big lie.

I guess I rilly might have a fever.

by Pistol Whip | 6 June 2007 | WTF, laffs | Comments