It does look like the analyst is talking here in this New Yorker cartoon. But why waste a centaur? I don’t understand. Go here to see the New Yorker cartoon contest. “Hell yes I blame my parents! Wouldn’t you?” “Recognition I get, but what I want is chicks.” “I shit on this guy’s rug once,…
Search Results for: NEW YORKER
Murder most foul, continued
I seem to spend an unconscionable amount of time making fun of the New Yorker on this blog, but sometimes they nail it. The nailer, in this case, is Amy Davidson, with this blog entry on the Obama Administration’s latest triumph, the murder of Anwar al-Awlaki’s 16-yer-old son, Abdulrahman al-Awlaki, which, Amy says, makes her…
Releasing your inner hyena
Over at the New Yorker, John Cassidy has a New Yorkerish (but still pretty good and not too dickish) profile of hedge-fund multi-billionaire Ray Dalio, whose zen Darwinist approach to capitalism has won him both hard cash and ridicule from the likes of New York magazine, whose earlier profile/takedown of Dalio is headlined “Pursuing Self-Interest…
The silence of the Post
Have you heard about the big controversy in New York? I mean, the decision of the board of trustees of City University of New York not to grant an honorary degree to playwright Tony Kushner, because he isn’t pro-Israel enough to suit their tastes? The controversy, and the backlash—the board says it’s reconsidering—has been huge….
Excuse the Fuck out of Me! Department
Over at the New Yorker, Tina Fey agonizes, at length, over the burdens of being Tina Fey. She’s a working mom, for sure, and she’d love to have another kid, but that would mean “derailing the TV show where two hundred people depend on me for their income, and I take that seriously.” Almost as…
Short, narrow-shouldered, shy semi-douche bag seeks companionship
New York magazine does admirable work here in deconstructing the New Yorker’s merciless take-down of nerdy billionaire loser Mark Zuckerberg, founder of Facebook, and impending victim of Andrew Sorkin’s presumably eviscerating film The Social Network. Being booted around the New Yorker for seven pages for being, among other things, a short, socially challenged, back-stabbing little…
Bob does Bette
Bob Dylan is shown here doing his famous Bette Davis impression, to the obvious delight of Allen Ginsberg and obvious despair of aging boytoy Peter Orlovsky. The photo illustrates an extract in the New Yorker from Chapter 2 of Sean Wilentz’s upcoming doorstop/blockbuster Bob Dylan in America. I was never a Dylan guy at all,…
Megan McArdle advocates death panels
Death panels of one, to be precise. Here’s her entire post on the subject: I’m probably going to have a lot of thoughts about this Atul Gawande piece on hospice care [in the New Yorker], but here’s a slightly off the wall question: how much better off are patients now that doctors don’t lie to…
Madonna’s private parts highly amusing, IMHO
Just last week I was taking a whack at Conan O’Brien, sneeringly referring to the poor guy as a “Harvard Hustler with the wit of Marty Allen.” Well, now I’ve got to defend Conan, against the likes of New Yorker writer Nancy Franklin, who asserts that “he’ll soon be Fantastic Mr. Fox, his blend of…
Pimp my mansion—the continuing saga of Katy Weymouth
Is Wash Post publisher Katy Weymouth that much worse than the Wall Street Journal, the Economist, and the Atlantic Monthly, not to mention the New Yorker? All Katy wanted to do was rent out her fancy mansion, her paper, and herself to corporate lobbyists anxious to meet government movers and shakers. In a fascinating follow-up…