It's always a bit strange to walk out into your hallway and be greeted by a giant, albeit old, washing machine. I'm not sure what it's doing there, but it's there. In the elevator I run into one of my neighbors and we briefly discuss BP stock prices, and right outside the building I see Mo H.
On the platform, a short woman in loose black pants is reading the New Yorker. I've been reading it religiously for over a decade, often while riding the subway, and I think it’s probably the best magazine this side of the Mississippi (and the other). The thing about the New Yorker is that when you subscribe, you don't just get a new magazine. You become part of the club. This can have a profound effect of arrogance, and when you see someone else reading it, there is wide slew of emotions that emanates.
On the one hand one enjoys being part of any group, especially one that feels so exclusive. On the other hand, we all like to believe we are the only ones with the intellectual prowess to belong to this club. So, who is this woman and why does she think she can read my magazine? I don't know, and I'll never find out, because the train arrives and I get on, forgetting about her black pants and shiny new issue.
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