We were visiting our favorite newsstand several weeks ago, thumbing through the trendy cyberzine section, when in between copies of WIRED and Mondo 2000 we came across a copy of The New Yorker. A mistake? No way. The dandy now inspects his electric butterfly through a VR monocle. The New Yorker is wired!
Years ago, when "Talk of the Town" described a Laurie Anderson concert, it seemed beyond the pale. The New Yorker always had brains - now it has the other organs as well. These days it's a disappointing issue that doesn't include some eruption of underground madness, along with plenty of fuck, shit, and oral sex. Casual skimming in past months has rewarded this reader with a piece on William Gibson reading from Virtual Light, a dead-on review of Wild Palms, Mark Leyner on channel-blocking TV chips, savage cartoons, Jay McInerny on the electronic book (he can't bear to part with his Sterling), capsule reviews of thrash bands, a Harvey Kurtzman obit, satanic incest exposes (imagine Enquirer articles vetted by John McPhee's fact- checkers), and profiles of magician Ricky Jay and Jerry Garcia. All this and Updike, too, showcased in cool covers by Art Spiegleman, Charles Burns, and Sue Coe.
When Time did its cyberpunk issue, it was merely gratuitous: a flash, and then gone. But every issue of The New Yorker is laced with pomo raving. At this point, government overthrow would be redundant. Where it really counts, we're already in.
The New Yorker: US$32.00 (50 issues). (800) 825 2510, +1 (303) 666 7000.
STREET CRED
The Ecology of CommerceCrashin' Windows
Hi-Fi-Fo-Fum, Pick the Wallets of the Dumb
Ada, the Enchantress of Numbers
The Talk of the E-Town
Tumbling into the Paperless Office
