The Economist

I bought a copy of _The Economist_ on my monthly grocery run to Sault Sainte Marie, a special treat even though it was a week out of date and hidden behind _Yoga Journal_ at Cole’s bookshop. It was that or _People_, and I was so horrified by the before-and-after pictures of Melanie Griffith’s big-mouth-bass lip surgery that I couldn’t bring it into the house.

I bought a copy of The Economist on my monthly grocery run to Sault Sainte Marie, a special treat even though it was a week out of date and hidden behind _Yoga Journal_ at Cole’s bookshop. It was that or People, and I was so horrified by the before-and-after pictures of Melanie Griffith’s big-mouth-bass lip surgery that I couldn’t bring it into the house.

The 20-something behind the counter snatched up _The Economist_.
   “Ohmigod! That’s my favourite magazine! And nobody buys it; no one ever reads it except me. I don’t even know why they stock it.” He swiped it reverently. “What’s your favourite section?”
I was unprepared for this level of detail. “I’m sort of a lightweight. The one at the back, “Moreover“, I think it’s called. And the Science and Technology section.” He looked disappointed.
   “I like the International Politics.”
   “Me too.”
   “Are you from the Soo?”
   “No, just visiting. I’m from Ireland.”
   “Oh.” Disappointed again. “See, I told you no one around here buys this.”

Reader, I think I could have had a Cougar Moment. But he’s right. _The Economist_ is terrific. I never know what my opinions are until I read them in _The Economist_. I wish the old gray hag had the sense to poach its editors.

From this issue’s _Lexington_ column, a sly description of the Democratic candidates’s wooing of Joe Sixpack.

Last week, six of the nine Democratic hopefuls descended on the Teamsters Local 238 hall in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, downwind of the acrid stench of roasted maize from a local “corn sweetners” plant–and proceeded to humble themselves. At times, it was almost too painful to watch. “Lemme tell ya,” thundered the Swiss-boarding-school-educated Mr. Kerry to his “brothers and sisters”. Mr. Dean, the son of a Wall Streeter, bounded on stage to the sound of Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA”. A quick scan of the car park revealed that one of only two Dean stickers was attached to a Minnesota minivan with a ski rack, hardly the sport of choice for Teamsters.