Most people return from their two weeks’ vacation to find a pile of bills, newspapers and magazines. They are dutifully read and (mostly) paid within a few days.
The traditional Cobb Manor vacation is a two-month melange of baseball, kayaking and biking in the subtropical climes of Ft. Myers, Fla. Do you know how much mail you collect in 60 days?
Magazines may be in big trouble across the country. Not at Cobb Manor.
I will be reading my “back” New Yorkers until at least Christmas Eve. As I try to catch up on the “old” ones, there is a new one every week in the mailbox. I also have Sports Illustrated magazine (my favorite), assorted Esquire magazines and Men’s Journal, which has some great adventure stories in between ads for $375 shirts. Texas Monthly appears in the pile, as well.
They are all in a heap in my queen-size bed. If they topple, it could mean the end of my life.
Naturally, I started with Sports Illustrated. The swimsuit issue. Then I caught up on the latest on Jeremy Lin, Tim Tebow and Peyton Manning. Hate them all. Can’t understand all of the attention they get, but I wade through it anyway. Sports Illustrated has a poignant article about Wes Leonard, a Fennville High School (Michigan) basketball player who hits a shot in overtime to preserve a perfect 20-0 season, then dies on the gym floor.
I will read all of the Sports Illustrated, eventually. I will even read coverage on games I saw weeks ago, even the advance on the NCAA basketball playoffs. (I have no life).
The New Yorkers are something else. Let’s see.
I will check each and every cartoon and the movie reviews, natch. But I don’t know about A Letter from Syria, “The implosion.” I know it’s important. I just don’t have the time. I don’t know how it got in The New Yorker, but I promise to skip “The Song Machine,” a profile of something called Rihanna. I will also rule out the 25-page “Dentists Without Borders, a French way with teeth.”
I know I should care, but “Children of the Dirty War, a report on Argentina’s stolen orphans,” will never make the cut. I promise to never read any of the New Yorker fiction. Don’t have the time.
I am a confirmed lowbrow and freely admit my fascination with Vanity Fair. I promise to read the profiles on beautiful Julia Roberts and Mike Nichols who is married to beautiful Diane Sawyer — there may be a theme here.
For reasons I do not fully understand, I subscribe to Texas Monthly and shall peruse every word of “Outlaw Country,” featuring Willie Nelson and Kris Kristofferson on the cover. I shall also read “How LBJ Really Felt About JFK,” because Texans should know, you know?
I think I was trying to impress Bob Besaw, former automobile columnist, when I signed up for Car and Driver magazine. (It was cheap). I promise (with all my heart) to look at each and every picture, but I don’t know about reading “Red Bull,” a look at BMW’s new 3-series and whether it will “send the other entry-luxury clowns scrambling.” Can’t wait. But I shall examine the road test on the original 1962 Shelby Cobra. Some things are sacred.
I feel I must keep informed on the latest auto developments, so I can make an informed decision when I win the lottery. Hey, it could happen. The guy sitting next to me at JetBlue Park won a pair of sneakers last month, so it is getting closer.
It is a definite problem trying to keep up with my magazine collection. But it has a bright side. I can stay in bed as late as I want and claim to be “catching up.”
Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at firstname.lastname@example.org.