So I finally sat in my apartment yesterday and waited for the postal carrier (ugly gender-neutral language! And yes she was a woman and she wasn't even in uniform, and what's up with that?) so that I could get into my mailbox, because somehow I lost my mailbox key some weeks ago and while I also am horrified of opening mail, there comes a time when you think there might be checks in the mailbox. Well there were! Some checks! As well as a letter named "City of New York v. Choire Sicha," which is basically an accurate summary of my entire life, though this just contained a neato "total information awareness" picture of my car under a red light. SO I WAS IN A HURRY. $50 of hurry, apparently. Also there were the three most recent copies of the New Yorker, which is weird because my subscription lapsed and I didn't renew it, because I was starting to feel a little choked by my relationship with the magazine. But I tucked the three New Yorkers and the ticket and the checks in my backpack (and didn't open this one envelope from the IRS at all) and then I thought, hey, what is in this week's New Yorker that wasn't online?

So, my goodness, well! In fact there is a piece by William Dalrymple that is fucking OUT OF THIS WORLD GOOD, like, completely crazy, on sex workers in India, which is particularly funny, because one would be quite right in thinking "prostitutes + Internet = wild traffic success."

Who would have known? Why do they torture us Internet people still with this "print-only" curmodgeonly-ness? (And why am I getting a ghost-subscription?) Conde Nast, across the board, is still terrified of "giving away" their "content" and believes that no one will "buy" their "magazines" and some day this situation will come to a breaking point. Anyway. There are basically only two pieces in the magazine not online and the other one is by the editor himself and I only really read a page of it though it's probably interesting, I just couldn't read it because I was like "Dude when do you have time to write this, should you not be doing something else?" Like, in the same way that I do not have time to do any number of things and I do not even have a job really. Anyway that Dalrymple piece is super-good and if you are among the 1 in 340 or so Americans who subscribe to the New Yorker and among the 1 in 680 Americans who actually read it, you will surely enjoy it.