VOL 43 Issue 52
Like every other Sunday morning, Ariel Dushku sipped her Folger’s and devoured The New York Times Magazine, her favorite touchstone for human connectivity and potential, consciousness and integrity, equity and veracity. Before poring over the gloriously articulate and indignant letters to the editor, increasingly facile crossword puzzle, exquisitely biased political commentary, and amazingly insightful long-form articles, Dushku compulsively studied the advertisements. She couldn’t wait to be enticed by a condo complex fronted by gaudy sculpture that will be raucously laughed at in 10 years, with units starting at $5 million, presumably designed to appeal to the sketchiest of Russian oligarchs. Then there will be the obligatorily condescending promotion for watches that should be viewed not as ostentatious, outdated accessories but as assets to be lovingly passed down through primogeniture. And Dushku always lingered on the group portraits of effete wealth managers or their stylishly smug clients, even though she is a debt-saddled second-year Legal Aid attorney who shares a studio apartment in Jackson Heights. “Good Sunday Times,” the card-carrying liberal elitist Dushku thought, as she wistfully balanced the importance of social justice with the indisputable fact that neither she nor her descendants will ever afford or qualify for goods or services of the advertisers in The New York Times Magazine.