The Faster We Go, The Algonguin Round Table
I have–somehow beyond my understanding–infiltrated the offices of the New Yorker magazine, which is one of your very fanciest magazines. The New Yorker is so fancy that you can’t take it into the bathroom with you, and it is useless at swatting flies. Only the better doctors (heart surgeon, etc.) may keep the New Yorker in their waiting rooms.
Cheever and Roth and Nabokov wrote for the magazine. Dorothy Parker drank for it. Charles Addams drew, and with all this breeding and pedigree, this site has now been mentioned on two occasions.
The great Alec Wilkinson was kind enough to mention TotD in an article today and for those keeping track, my BCAG (Being Called A Genius) average is now .500. This article did not call me a genius, and I haven’t thought about that fact at all today.
This is Paumgarten’s fault.
Oh, God, why?
He did this to me.
The nice man who wrote about you in a national and respected magazine and with whom you have mutual friends? Is that the person you’re declaring jihad on now?
It sounds bad when you put it like that.
How is this the fault of Nick Paumgarten, writer of the best explanation of post-Garcia Enthusiasm yet?
Well, he set the bar awful high, didn’t he?
By calling you a genius?
Oh, you poor crazy fuck.
Literally everything after being called a genius is a crushing defeat, and I have now talked myself into believing that Paumgarten did it on purpose.
I can’t live with you anymore.
But then you won’t be in magazines!