When someone hands you 'The New Yorker' . . . a cautionary tale

December 6, 2010 issue

When someone hands you a copy of The New Yorker, do you:

A) Slip it into your tote, feeling smug, because you can whip it out at any time, and say, "Well, I have the December issue of the The New Yorker," and bask in the glow of approval sure to follow;
B) Stuff it in your briefcase, so you can take it out on the train to New York and impress other commuters;
C) Think who you can pass it along to when you're done reading it; or
D) Read it right away--the sooner, the better.

If I were asked this question in a public setting, like on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire," I'd select D. Final answer.

Alas, if I'd only done as much.

I'd planned to read it one week night when my husband was working, but I wrote a new blog post instead.

I intended to read the issue passed along to me by Nancy McKinley, a member of our writing group and a faculty member in the Wilkes University creative writing program, en route to a press conference at the Metropolitan Opera, representing Backtrack, a site I review opera for.

But I just didn't get around to it. I'd just received a new BlackBerry and busied myself entering contacts into it and practicing using the different features since this was my first smart phone. Meanwhile, The New Yorker sat in my briefcase, wedged in between my opera book and my writing group excerpts to critique. Never cracked it by the time we reached Penn Station.

Flash forward, one hour and thirty city blocks. I'm standing in the Met lobby, waiting to enter List Hall, talking to a photographer I'd just met who was also covering the Met's 2011-12 season announcment. She was asking me what kind of writing I do, and before I could answer, Gay Talese approached us.



Gay Talese

"Gay!" she said. "How nice of you to come!" (or something like that). Then she turned to me, "You know Gay, don't you? An opera lover from way back."

I didn't know Gay. But I wanted to know him, this dapper man who'd just come in from the blustery cold, donning a cream-colored fedora, universally respected and world renowned for his non-fiction writing.

Since I've done PR for about 15 years in Lancaster County and have invited a finite universe of people to news conferences over time, most of whom never show, I didn't know what to expect when the Met holds a press conference. A crush of people? Probably not. I suspected an outfit like the Met would frontload information to all the really significant media in advance. I didn't expect to meet anyone of consequence attending the event. I didn't expect to meet Gay Talese.

I muttered something like, "Nice to meet you," slobbering sycophantically. And faster than you can say, "Placido Domingo," Mr. Talese began chatting up another circle of attendees.

Marina Poplavskaya, from The New Yorker

What makes life worth living? All the ironies we encounter. For in the briefcase I was holding in my hand which contained the December issue of The New Yorker, featuring a in-depth article called "Travels with a Diva" about soprano Marina Poplavskaya, written by . . . . Go ahead. Guess.

Gay Talese! How did you ever guess?

Had I read Mr. Talese's fascinating account of traveling to several venues around the world with a mercurial soprano who made a name for herself by replacing a few more famous divas who pulled out of projects, I could have said something intelligent like, "I so enjoyed your feature on Ms. Poplavskaya. I always wondered what it was like to be an opera singer on the cusp of certain fame."

But I hadn't read it. So, I couldn't say anything about it. How many other chances will I have to meet Gay Talese, to make some kind of impression? I'm guessing not too many. But here's the life lesson:

In my gut, I knew I should've read that New Yorker cover to cover, a lot sooner than I'd gotten around to it. Did I listen to my gut? No. I put it off and put it off, blowing a great opportunity to make a literary connection. Why I did this, I don't know. Once I actually sat down to read it, I was riveted to the article. I wrote a book featuring a baritone breaking into the international opera circuit. It confirmed my suspicions that sudden fame can do a head trip on opera singers. It was an excellent piece, and I feel like a smarter person having read it.

Moral of the story: When someone hands you a New Yorker to read (whatever that New Yorker might be, esoterically speaking), don't worship it or genuflect or tuck it into a sacred corner of your expensive brief case.

Read the damn magazine.