The New Yorker Magazine I'm taking a half hour to sprint through three copies of The New Yorker. I'm doing this because I am frightened that there's another one waiting in my mailbox in the lobby. It's not that there isn't exciting reading in the magazine. My God, it's been a bastion for top writers in America for many years. The reason I have so many unread issues is that it is so easy to set them aside for reading later. Later never comes. Despite all this angst, I've gotten my money's worth if I peruse the cartoons. A day without Roz Chast is a day not worth the beans enough to make you fart. Huddled Up And Waiting For The Storm Date 12/22/2022, 10:00 am. I'm angry and frightened about the behavior of those of us living in The Frozen Tundra. A week ago, the metrologists predicted a storm for the ages, leaving many of us buried in snow ventured then to measure 10-20 inches. For some, this means a journey to the garage to start the snow blower t...