We noticed a lot of lifestyle-type ads:
"The Retreat at Sheppard Pratt. A first class setting for world class care. Psychotherapeutic milieu."
We take Thorazine, they take Thorazine, but WE go to the Free Clinic to get it; THEY go to The Retreat at Sheppard Pratt.
We determined to change our milieu.
"The Vein Treatment Center."
We shoot heroin; they shoot heroin!
"Structure House, a renowned facility and community for weight loss, diabetes management, and lifestyle change."
Dr. Hersh, our Urologist at the Free Clinic and a New Yorker writer "on the side," had often talked to us about a lifestyle change and our need for more structure.
"Are you a Sybarite?"
Not since Dr. Hersh gave us shots of the penicillin.
We then began to see a pattern in the ads:
"World's BEST Beds."
"Upton Tea Imports, purveyor of the world's FINEST teas." Purveyor means seller, we looked it up.
"Terroir: only the freshest and FINEST coffees."
"Classic Legacy Perfumes. FINEST Quality Formulations."
"Best," "Finest:" Whatever the expense only the best will do. That is the quintessence of The New Yorker reader.
"Custom-Made Floor Mats. Perfectly tailored to fit your car, van, truck or SUV."
Even with FLOOR MATS only the best will do. We had a pickup truck that we could accessorize with one of these.
"Fine Dog Portraits in Oil."
We have a dog, Tilley. We have some Polaroid pictures of her but the difference between us and Them is that They paid for fine oil portraits of their dogs. This threw some needed light on the "Love your pet in style" ad that had flummoxed us earlier. We loved Tilley but to REALLY love Tilley we had to show it by spending whatever was required to love her "in style."
We then saw the Cold Fusion Yo-Yo ad for the first time since The Undersigned showed it to us at the Free Clinic. It cost $90. It was by Duncan, which is to yo-yos what The New Yorker is to magazines.
$90 for a yo-yo. We used to get a Duncan yo-yo for 99 cents when we were young.
Who would pay $90 for a yo-yo? New Yorker readers obviously, but why...why?
Because it was the BEST, that's why! And whether it's floor mats, boat shoes or yo-yos only the best is good enough for the best and the brightest (i.e. New Yorker readers).
It was all beginning to make sense.
Then...we saw the Rosanna Stone of our inquiry:
www.joannerossman.com.
"Purveyor of the Unnecessary & the Irresistible."
New Yorker readers bought a lot of things from "purveyors." They seemed to be an integral part of The New Yorker reader "milieu."
We had another head click. Unnecessary and irresistible, unnecessary and irresistible...peut-etre as in cocaine and heroin, which we were familiar with? We see said the blind man!
We thought to ourselves that this Joanne Rossman must be to New Yorker readers what Playboy centerfolds are to women: the standard in style by which all others are measured.
It was all in the style. If you had business savvy and style you could purvey all manner of
unnecessary and irresistible things.
We resolved to suggest a business card to Tyrone the next time we saw him at the Free Clinic:
"Tyrone, Purveyor of the Unnecessary and Irresistible
The Finest Essence of Coca and the Best French Opiates
Located under the tree by the 7/11, corner of Washington and State
Open 2-6 a.m. nightly."
And after a while of purchasing Tyrone's purveyances one could check into The Vein Treatment Center or The Retreat at Shepphard Pratt.
It was closing time at the library and we felt that we had accomplished our objective.
We had tested ourselves, we had read The New Yorker, but we had not read The New Yorker as a magazine, we had read it as an anthropologist had read the Rosanna Stone, we had analyzed it as a cultural hermeneutic; we had "read" it maybe as New Yorker readers didn't even do.
It wasn't the articles that separated New Yorker readers from the riff-raff. They didn't read the articles. It wasn't even the cartoons. Lots of magazines have witty, erudite cartoons. It was Style, as exemplified in boat shoes with 18 karat gold eyelets, in oil paintings of dogs, in the unnecessary and irresistible. It was a certain, how to say, je ne sais quoi.
We thought of submitting our anthropological analysis to The New Yorker for publication, but then we thought that was stupid, no one would ever read it.
"The Retreat at Sheppard Pratt. A first class setting for world class care. Psychotherapeutic milieu."
We take Thorazine, they take Thorazine, but WE go to the Free Clinic to get it; THEY go to The Retreat at Sheppard Pratt.
We determined to change our milieu.
"The Vein Treatment Center."
We shoot heroin; they shoot heroin!
"Structure House, a renowned facility and community for weight loss, diabetes management, and lifestyle change."
Dr. Hersh, our Urologist at the Free Clinic and a New Yorker writer "on the side," had often talked to us about a lifestyle change and our need for more structure.
"Are you a Sybarite?"
Not since Dr. Hersh gave us shots of the penicillin.
We then began to see a pattern in the ads:
"World's BEST Beds."
"Upton Tea Imports, purveyor of the world's FINEST teas." Purveyor means seller, we looked it up.
"Terroir: only the freshest and FINEST coffees."
"Classic Legacy Perfumes. FINEST Quality Formulations."
"Best," "Finest:" Whatever the expense only the best will do. That is the quintessence of The New Yorker reader.
"Custom-Made Floor Mats. Perfectly tailored to fit your car, van, truck or SUV."
Even with FLOOR MATS only the best will do. We had a pickup truck that we could accessorize with one of these.
"Fine Dog Portraits in Oil."
We have a dog, Tilley. We have some Polaroid pictures of her but the difference between us and Them is that They paid for fine oil portraits of their dogs. This threw some needed light on the "Love your pet in style" ad that had flummoxed us earlier. We loved Tilley but to REALLY love Tilley we had to show it by spending whatever was required to love her "in style."
We then saw the Cold Fusion Yo-Yo ad for the first time since The Undersigned showed it to us at the Free Clinic. It cost $90. It was by Duncan, which is to yo-yos what The New Yorker is to magazines.
$90 for a yo-yo. We used to get a Duncan yo-yo for 99 cents when we were young.
Who would pay $90 for a yo-yo? New Yorker readers obviously, but why...why?
Because it was the BEST, that's why! And whether it's floor mats, boat shoes or yo-yos only the best is good enough for the best and the brightest (i.e. New Yorker readers).
It was all beginning to make sense.
Then...we saw the Rosanna Stone of our inquiry:
www.joannerossman.com.
"Purveyor of the Unnecessary & the Irresistible."
New Yorker readers bought a lot of things from "purveyors." They seemed to be an integral part of The New Yorker reader "milieu."
We had another head click. Unnecessary and irresistible, unnecessary and irresistible...peut-etre as in cocaine and heroin, which we were familiar with? We see said the blind man!
We thought to ourselves that this Joanne Rossman must be to New Yorker readers what Playboy centerfolds are to women: the standard in style by which all others are measured.
It was all in the style. If you had business savvy and style you could purvey all manner of
unnecessary and irresistible things.
We resolved to suggest a business card to Tyrone the next time we saw him at the Free Clinic:
"Tyrone, Purveyor of the Unnecessary and Irresistible
The Finest Essence of Coca and the Best French Opiates
Located under the tree by the 7/11, corner of Washington and State
Open 2-6 a.m. nightly."
And after a while of purchasing Tyrone's purveyances one could check into The Vein Treatment Center or The Retreat at Shepphard Pratt.
It was closing time at the library and we felt that we had accomplished our objective.
We had tested ourselves, we had read The New Yorker, but we had not read The New Yorker as a magazine, we had read it as an anthropologist had read the Rosanna Stone, we had analyzed it as a cultural hermeneutic; we had "read" it maybe as New Yorker readers didn't even do.
It wasn't the articles that separated New Yorker readers from the riff-raff. They didn't read the articles. It wasn't even the cartoons. Lots of magazines have witty, erudite cartoons. It was Style, as exemplified in boat shoes with 18 karat gold eyelets, in oil paintings of dogs, in the unnecessary and irresistible. It was a certain, how to say, je ne sais quoi.
We thought of submitting our anthropological analysis to The New Yorker for publication, but then we thought that was stupid, no one would ever read it.
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