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September 4th, 2018

Too Many Tote Bags

BIG brouhaha over The New Yorker’s decision to headline its upcoming schmooze fest with Steven Bannon.

I had no issue with Remnick & Co inviting Bannon to participate.

In fact, I’d kinda like to hear Bannon speak. I’m seriously considering buying a ticket for The Economist’s schmooze fest on September 15 where Bannon is on one of the panels. (Although that will make for an extremely crowded weekend, and I will probably need to find a bed in NYC.)

My issue was with The New Yorker’s decision to hype Bannon as a headliner.

Number One: Because that meant I would be hit with a steady barrage of Bannon’s name and likeness in conjunction with the marketing of the event.

Number Two: Since headlining is an indicator of relative importance, what Remnick & Co were saying by conferring this status upon Bannon is that Bannon is more important than Zadie Smith and Harry Bellafonte and Sally Yates and Boots Riley, or any of the other people I might be interested in listening to at the schmooze fest.

I mean—just who was The New Yorker angling to have show up at its schmooze fest with all that Bannon PR? And were they planning a Herman Goerring lookalike contest for one of the breaks?

I was prepared to cancel my subscription over this one. Give back the tote bag!

I don't actually want that tote bag anyway.

I have more tote bags than you can possibly imagine, and I never use tote bags when I go to the grocery store anyway because I need plastic bags to deal with the cat shit situation.

I wasn’t particularly devastated over the prospect of canceling my New Yorker subscription. It’s not like anyone can possibly keep up with The New Yorker.

But Remnick backed down.


Maybe I can use the tote bag to store cat toys.


In other news: Rilly, rilly, rilly hot yesterday. Like horrible hot. Like I went outside once, was immediately hit by this wall of muggy, overheated air, turned around and went back inside, so I spent yesterday feeling as though I was a prisoner.

Was once again in a horrible mood when I spoke to Max on the phone.

I’m sure he thinks I’m demented.

It’s just me and the Scut Factory today. Since I’m in a bad mood anyway, I might as well make money.

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