One of the perks of being employed by the American system of French bibliothèques is the magazine selection. Instead of shelling out a few quid for a year's subscription to Pretending You're An Intellectual Monthly, I can simply peruse our copy, cut out the pictures of scantily-clad ladies, and save my not-really-earned scratch for
more booze paying bills.
Of course, libraries cannot subscribe to all the magazines in the world, for that would require pallets of greenbacks and we lost most of ours scarfing down corn dogs and guzzling poisoned Pepsi while avoiding electrocution and/or swarms of IEDs while on vacation at Saddam's Sunni World. Half off with an annual KBR Green Zone Fun Pass! So many memories.
Of course, of course, and no one can talk to a horse of course, that is, of course, we subscribe to some of these all magazines chez moi, sometimes via nameless benefactor. For lo, and perhaps, behold, many moons ago, last autumn I believe, I started receiving Rolling Stone. Don't know why, but if I wanted to read a collection of three-star reviews (five-star, if it's a new album of Dylan farting or some blathering U2 stadium rock crap) on hipster shit, I could instead simply descend to the basement and set myself on fire.
Back in the late 1980s before the advent of the internets as we know them -- shut up Usenut nuts, I don't care -- we, that is, me, used to get Electronic Gaming Monthly. Then I stopped for a bit when I had no loot. Then I got hitched and had a kid. Then I needed more loot. So I got a job which paid more loot. Which I spent on those cash vacuums, but I kept a small stash to resubscribe to EGM. For some reason, likely because she wrote out the check, the subscription was in the name of my sometimes-better-half. She's geeky, too. One of the reasons we haven't stabbed each other to death, I suppose.
Anyway, to make a long story even longer -- don't worry, cleavage is on the way -- she let the subscription lapse because all the video gaming news was found more quickly (and more cheaply) on the internets (thank you grownup Usenut nuts). That still doesn't mean I don't harbor a searing hatred for Kindle. Lo, and behold a second time, yesterday my sometimes-better-half began receiving a new title, ostensibly paid for by the remaining amount of the subscription to EGM (which lapsed a few years ago) at least according to the sticker affixed to the cover. Oooh, a mystery.
One I cannot solve because, after I'm done ogling scantily-clad Jennifer Love Hewitt, I have to set myself on fire after offending all good sense by reading some of their edgy articleing on How To Be A Douchebag, But A Cool Douchebag. Forgive me, Cthulhu. Bonus points for the piece on National Lampoon's Vacation, though. I'll only use lighter fluid instead of rocket fuel. Less explodey.
The above is assuming, of course, that this isn't a devious plot cooked up by my sometimes-better-half to catch me ogling scantily-clad ladies in print media. I'm not that paranoid. I mean, I only buy 44% of the Roswell coverup and 68% of the JFK.
Keep watching slightly less than one half of the skies!