It was a good story; however, I'm getting a little tired of Munro's often used theme. What's wrong with Canadian men anyway that they are always taking advantage of women so? I also read the T. C. Boyle story in this week's issue, (Something) Wood. It started out promisingly but ended strangely, as if he had to rush off to an appointment.
I have something terrible to confess: I never really "get" Alice Munro. She's revered among all writers, but I read her stories and come to the end and think, "OK, so?" I know -- shameful! Also, from what I've read of her she sounds very nice. I'd probably like her. What's wrong with me?
T.C. Boyle I have much better luck with. He exudes such authorial authority that he usually carries me along. But I haven't yet read, or seen, the story you mentioned. And I did bail on his fairly recent George Saunderish one about the giant guy in some Latin American dictatorship being kept in captivity for breeding a race of giants.
Fiction used to be the part of the
New Yorker I would most reliably read (well, that and movie reviews). Now I rarely read it unless at first glance it looks easy (lots of dialogue and short paragraphs) and short. I rarely read stories that refer to their protagonists primarily by their last names. I rarely read stories with long paragraphs of dialogueless prose. I rarely read stories unless I can get into them within the first couple of paragraphs.
Now the parts of the
New Yorker I most reliably read are still movie reviews (especially Anthony Lane's), James Surewiecki's (sp?) columns, the main editorial if I'm interested in the topic, Shouts and Murmurs (unless I start them and they seem too far-fetched -- I love Bob Odenkirk on
Breaking Bad, but his recent S&M lost me midway through). The book reviews sometimes, if I have any interest in the book.
After that, it's hit and miss depending on the writer and subject.