Pun Salad

True confessions: I recently became a subscriber to The New Yorker. They gave me a subscription offer I found difficult to refuse. Don't worry, I haven't gone over to the Dark Side. Similar to what they say about Playboy: I only read it for the cartoons.

And, yes, it's like a print version of National Public Radio. For example, notice the image of this week's cover I have stolen borrowed. Helpful tip for fellow members of the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy: bookmark the permalink for this post, so the next time your local liberal bemoans that conservatives "demonize" figures on the left, you can pull it up, point to the graphic, and simply raise one eyebrow in the sophisticated manner us New Yorker readers have cultivated. If you want, you can murmur "tu quoque," but be careful not to mispronounce it, lest you be taken for a yahoo.

The cartoons are still pretty good though, and there's even one on page 37 this week from Mick Stevens that will irritate environmental alarmists and make everyone else smile. Don Boudreaux has it here. (I'd reproduce it too, but I'm probably pushing my copyright infringement luck with the cover.)

But what I really wanted to mention is: Steve Martin has a memoir coming out titled Born Standing Up: A Comic's Life, and there's a hefty excerpt in the magazine. As even the excerpt makes clear, he's had an interesting life, and he writes about it well. This sentence leaped out at me:

Through the years, I have learned that there is no harm in charging oneself up with delusions between moments of valid inspiration.