in every 'new yorker' short story ever...

45) character quietly repeats meaningless phrase to himself under his breath, as if it mattered, but he knew it did not

That sounds more like something from The Twilight Zone

Actually all of work pretty well when considered as fragments of Twilight Zone episodes.

Cold War sci-fi paranoia preferable to unnameable ennui. Especially when enacted by future sitcom stars.

what the fuck are you talking about?

most of these are actually pretty ominous when removed from context

Sorry, bleeding over from this thread.

Hm. Looks like Salter published plenty of stuff in The New Yorker, so maybe I should put a lid on it. I guess the strategy is if you don't like something you say "typical New Yorker fare" but if you do like it you say "it just happened to be published in The New Yorker." In any case, didn't mean to derail thread. Am enjoying these, including number 45.

Some of these are Belew-era King Crimson song lyrics in sum.

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2007/12/10/071210fi_fiction_egan

This story is totally typical new yorker fare but I still enjoyed it a lot.

The golden thread that links Junot Diaz and William Trevor.

"The Ghost Writer" was first published in the New Yorker.

Philip Roth: the Woody Allen of neurotic jewish writes

wate

a++++ thread u guys

reading so much nyer for creative writing undergrad seminar.

harpers 4 lyfe

^ real talk

harpers wack too

upstate writer living off 90's economy gets drunk and falls asleep in central park and wakes up in a cave 20 years later and wait they never get this far

damn son i thought we was fam

minstrel

the creeps at mcsweeneys should ride on the new yorker

i should offer to ship valencia assault rifles see how they respond

"Mr. Eggers, I have some light verse, and John O'hara and Louise Erdrich naked and strapped down on a spinning table. How much would your people pay per mutilation?"

rather get an astrology magazine

from the story linked by 31g:

But that wish only camouflaged the deeper feeling that Sasha always had: that fat, tender wallet, offering itself to her hand. It seemed so dull, so life-as-usual just to leave it there rather than seize the moment, accept the challenge, take the leap, fly the coop, throw caution to the wind, live dangerously (“I get it,” Coz, her therapist, said), and take the fucking thing.

Ha. I think it was actually Zuckerman Unbound that started in The Atlantic. It's all about Alvin Pepler.

haha, I remember reading that exact SENTENCE when that story came out and going "UGH, NEW YORKER FICTION!"

I guess stuff like that doesn't bother me because 1) I'm basically illiterate so it doesn't really seem cliched to me and 2) I just skim over the boring parts whenever I read anything.

Ok wait, come on, this?
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2008/03/10/080310fi_fiction_kunzru?currentPage=3

This???

Sorry, starts here:
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2008/03/10/080310fi_fiction_kunzru?currentPage=1

We liked to do things casually. We called at the last minute. We messaged one another from our hand-held devices. Sometimes our names were on exclusive guest lists (though we were poor, we were beautiful, and people liked to have us around), but often we preferred to do something else—attend a friend’s opening, drink in after-hours clubs or the room above a pub, trek off to remote suburbs to see a band play in a warehouse. We went dancing whenever we felt like it (none of us had regular jobs), and when we didn’t we stayed in, watching movies and getting high. Someone always had something new or special—illegal pre-releases of Hollywood blockbusters, dubs of 8-mm. shorts from the nineteen-seventies. We watched next summer’s exploding airplanes, Viennese Actionists masturbating onto operating tables. Raw meat and Nick Cage. Whatever we watched was, by definition, good, because we’d watched it, because it had belonged—at least, temporarily—to us. By the time the wider world caught up—which always happened, sooner or later—we’d usually got bored and moved on. We had long since given up mourning the loss of our various enthusiasms. We’d learned to discard them lightly. It was the same with clubs and bars. Wherever we went would be written about in magazines three or four months later. A single mention on a blog, and a place that had been spangled with beautiful, interesting faces would be swamped by young bankers in button-down shirts, nervously analyzing the room to see if they were having fun.

I must make it clear that we didn’t plan for our lives to be this way. We despised trendies—fashion kids who tried too hard, perennially hoping to get hosed down by the paps or interviewed about their hair. With us, it wasn’t a neurotic thing. We put on public events—salons, gigs, parties, shows. But once in a while, in the midst of our hectic social gyrations, we liked to do something for one another, something that didn’t drain our energy, that made us feel private again.

I was confused. What did she mean, “so Raj”?

The food was simple and plain—fruit, cheeses, loaves of crusty bread—and while we ate it there was a program of entertainment. Michel read several of his poems. Hengist and Horsa played folk songs. A woman called Kevin did some kind of improvised dance, a flurry of arm-swirling that made me feel embarrassed and slightly uncomfortable. I took that as a good sign. If a piece of art makes me uncomfortable or, better still, angry, that seems to be a reason to pay attention to it.

As I’d hoped, I went home with Thanh, and for a few weeks my memories of Sunita’s party were filtered through my new relationship with her. We’d lie for hours on a rug on her studio floor, fucking and listening to music.

Cue Vampire Weekend

well at least there's some fucking in it I guess

http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net/memoryalpha/en/images/thumb/9/94/Hengist.jpg/200px-Hengist.jpg

It took me a minute or two to put it together, and when I did I wasn’t happy. The bastard. The two-faced little fucker. Raj had been getting paid to take those pictures. He’d come to our party, and not just any party, to Sunita’s party, the most beautiful gathering imaginable, and he’d shamelessly used it to sell us—to sell me—a product. The more I thought about it, the more angry I became. All that trash about the vodka being smooth: his whole conversation had been a sales pitch. It was creepy. More than creepy. It was sinister. Furious, I told Thanh to come over and have a look. She peered at the monitor, doing up her blouse.

“You came out pretty well,” she said. “I like your glam-rock pout.”

“But look at it. That bastard made us into an advert.”

“Are we credited?”

“Only our first names.”

“Shame. And I look so drunk.”

“I suppose you—no, no, no! That’s not the point. I mean, don’t you feel used?”

“What are you so upset about? You don’t look nearly as wasted as me. It’s hardly fair. You were downing those shots all night.”

“But what about Raj? He never asked us whether we wanted to be on his damn vodka Web site. And all that patter about how smooth it tasted!”

“It was smooth.”

“But to talk to people and secretly be trying to sell them something—isn’t that, I don’t know, unethical? Surely you agree that it’s completely out of order.”

“He didn’t ask us to buy anything. He gave us free drinks.”

“I know, but the point was to get us to buy something later on. That particular brand. We generate buzz. We recommend it to our friends, it becomes hip, blah-blah-blah.”

“He should have given me image approval. Look at my chin! I’m going to have words next time I see him.”

“For fuck’s sake, Thanh! He was just using us. He wanted to make us into—into early adopters.”

“But we are early adopters. I got a free phone a few months ago. All I had to do was watch a film and say how it made me feel.”

“Jesus, you really are a shallow bitch.”

Hmm, does this plot device make clear my point about appropriation? Nah, I'd better have the characters explain it through excrutiating dialogue.

One thing I must admit here: I find anger tricky. Anger is a very sincere emotion. We live under the rule of cool, and we are expected to encounter the vicissitudes of the world with a certain degree of irony.

SINCERITY/IRONY

Sincerity, as any hipster will tell you, is for awkward teens and people on SSRIs.

SINCERITY/IRONY/SSRIs

HIPSTERS

that paragraph is a grand slam

Time Out New York: Harmless Toilet Reading or Used Toilet Tissue?

I still think it's amazing that an entertainment magazine in one of the entertainment capitals of the world can't think of stuff to put on its cover.

As the story continues, things start to get cray-zee! But I won't spoil it.

Late to the party, but that Gilby S (my pet name for him) interview posted above totally rocks my dick off

Also, McSweeney's gives me bloody, chunk-filled diarrhea. Someone should start a thread on that pile of used-up toilet paper.

hurting that story ... jesus

I couldn't even finish that Raj story; whenever the New Yorker and the NYT tries to do anything with "contemporary" culture, it reads like it was written by 60 year old hermits living in Upper Montclair, NJ or Westchester County, observing those "crazy kids" in New York through very powerful telescopes.

no, it reads like it was written by some young new york writer living in a brownstone