At work when things are slow, we entertain ourselves by choosing personal catchwords (indeed, arguably), bus stop personas, hip hop names, and so on. I won't bore you with the details because inside jokes are pretty much only funny to those on the inside, but I will note that I'm a Francesca, and that my hip hop name so scandalized a co-worker that she refused to even pronounce it.
The catchword I was handed is: indubitably. At first I didn't care for it and have actually never used it in conversation but it's the word that came to mind when I was looking at this collection of New Yorker covers. Yes yes, I can hear the sighs and I agree that the magazine deserves some of of its rep for smugness and insufferability. I don't get the Ian Frazier humor pieces either (sorry dude, I bet you're funny in real life but those "humorous" one-pagers are as wooden and tired as last year's Christmas tree). I skip the architecture and theatre articles, figuring they're about people I haven't heard of and wouldn't care about if I had.
The covers though. The covers are genius. Just the past few weeks have featured a luscious Thiebaud pie, and a soft-focus light show. I saved the Obama covers--the White House at night, illuminated with a softly glowing O. The Prez as Abe Lincoln. Even the one that generated all the controversy. The covers are where The New Yorker comes through. Indubitably.
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