My name is Dervala, and I am addicted to shiny paper. Here is a partial list of magazines that arrive in my mail. Some came free with credit card accounts, but most I’ve paid for.
- The Economist. I’m lazier about reading this than I used to be. I’m lazier about most things than I used to be.
The New Yorker. Does anyone else read the short stories?
New York. Deliciously provincial.
Food and Wine. Don’t know why this arrives. I read it anyway, but it makes me feel middle aged.
National Geographic Traveler. See above.
Conde Nast Traveller. See above. $500 hotel rooms? Come on.
Harpers. The high-WASP tone finally did me in. Haven’t re-upped my subscription.
Vogue. I am in an abusive relationship with Anna Wintour. And you know what? I don’t need it any more. Eat my In Style, bitch!
Best Fares. Cheapskate travel deals, none of which I have ever booked.
New York Runner. Feeds my athletic self-image, though I haven’t run more than a block in the last year.
Outside, Outdoors. Climbing! Camping! Mountain biking! Some day…
Real Simple. A glimpse into my recession-bitten thirtysomething future. I actually made fudge sauce from one of their recipes last year.
Time Out New York. Does every TONY journalist live in Carroll Gardens?
In Style. Genius publishing. Celebrity clothes; celebrity hair through the years. In the good times, InStyle was regularly as thick as a Brooklyn phone directory. The latest issue wasn’t much bigger than The Economist. It’s like comparing the Courtney Cox of Dancing in the Dark with today’s thinner, meaner version. Those of us in ad-supported industries feel starved when we see this trend.
No longer with us: Silicon Alley Reporter. Red Herring, Industry Standard. Which I only ever read for articles on Vindigo, anyway.
I read magazines because the form factor is right. They don’t need booting up, they don’t fall apart, they can be managed with one hand, the ink doesn’t stain your fingers, the paper isn’t stinky. New York Times, are you listening?