Obsessive compulsive behaviors
Sep. 28th, 2004 08:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraI’ve been subscribing to The New Yorker ever since I can remember, for years and years and years. I hardly ever read it though. When we lived in the old house, I had a special closet devoted solely to back issues of The New Yorker, heaped waist high. I don’t have a clue what I thought I was going to do with them all. But if the MacArthur Foundation ever called me for a genius interview, at least I’d have the resources to pull an all-nighter.
I like their occasional interviews with limo drivers of the rich and famous; I hate the profiles of the mushroom genies of pop culture – who wants to read about Algernon Swineburne? And aren’t they all Algernon Swineburn, give or take a hundred and fifty years? Increasingly the humor pieces escape me. I do like Anthony Lane, but I could just check his book out of the library.
All this comes up because the season of annual renewal grows nigh. My subscription isn’t due to expire until late November, but The New Yorker isn’t taking any chances. Every other day I get a new renewal notice in the mail. If I ignore them, they start offering free gifts! Here it is late September and already they’re dangling a calendar; if I hold out till Thanksgiving, maybe they’ll up the ante to a tasteful nude portrait of Steve Martin.
I must say, I’m having mutinous thoughts. Suppose I don’t renew? I’ll be $43 richer plus those whimsical cartoon covers won’t be sitting anymore in a stack in my office reproaching me for my utter disinterest in having anything remotely resembling an intellectual life. Upside: more money for bills, less room for dust bunnies. Downside: what exactly?
In other news, a real live obsessive compulsive came into the store yesterday. I knew he was an obsessive compulsive because he was inextricably and uncontrollably drawn to the giant box of Monster Matches. I could see him looking at it through the windows, struggling as he walked in through the door. His eyes alighted upon it on the far side of the room, he looked away. Pretended to be interested in a nearby row of barbecue sauces. Ha, ha, ha, thought I. Wimp guys like you don’t barbecue.
Then he sidled over to the Monster Matches. Picked one up. Slowly. Flicked the fire switch. A look of pure relief flooded his face. Picked up the next, flicked the switch. Worked his way through all twenty, his thin weasel face growing jollier and jollier.
Watching someone enact a private ritual in public like this, of course, is embarrassing for both perp and voyeur, and in the old days before I became an entrepreneur – when New Yorkers were stockpiled in my closet like my own private Alexandria – I would have averted my eyes. Not now though. Now I stared at him.
He looked up, saw me watching. Flushed beet red. “I had to find one that worked right,” he explained.
I nodded politely, expectantly.
He picked up a Monster Match and made his way to the cash register where I closed the sale.
I like their occasional interviews with limo drivers of the rich and famous; I hate the profiles of the mushroom genies of pop culture – who wants to read about Algernon Swineburne? And aren’t they all Algernon Swineburn, give or take a hundred and fifty years? Increasingly the humor pieces escape me. I do like Anthony Lane, but I could just check his book out of the library.
All this comes up because the season of annual renewal grows nigh. My subscription isn’t due to expire until late November, but The New Yorker isn’t taking any chances. Every other day I get a new renewal notice in the mail. If I ignore them, they start offering free gifts! Here it is late September and already they’re dangling a calendar; if I hold out till Thanksgiving, maybe they’ll up the ante to a tasteful nude portrait of Steve Martin.
I must say, I’m having mutinous thoughts. Suppose I don’t renew? I’ll be $43 richer plus those whimsical cartoon covers won’t be sitting anymore in a stack in my office reproaching me for my utter disinterest in having anything remotely resembling an intellectual life. Upside: more money for bills, less room for dust bunnies. Downside: what exactly?
In other news, a real live obsessive compulsive came into the store yesterday. I knew he was an obsessive compulsive because he was inextricably and uncontrollably drawn to the giant box of Monster Matches. I could see him looking at it through the windows, struggling as he walked in through the door. His eyes alighted upon it on the far side of the room, he looked away. Pretended to be interested in a nearby row of barbecue sauces. Ha, ha, ha, thought I. Wimp guys like you don’t barbecue.
Then he sidled over to the Monster Matches. Picked one up. Slowly. Flicked the fire switch. A look of pure relief flooded his face. Picked up the next, flicked the switch. Worked his way through all twenty, his thin weasel face growing jollier and jollier.
Watching someone enact a private ritual in public like this, of course, is embarrassing for both perp and voyeur, and in the old days before I became an entrepreneur – when New Yorkers were stockpiled in my closet like my own private Alexandria – I would have averted my eyes. Not now though. Now I stared at him.
He looked up, saw me watching. Flushed beet red. “I had to find one that worked right,” he explained.
I nodded politely, expectantly.
He picked up a Monster Match and made his way to the cash register where I closed the sale.
