The Economist
I bought a copy of The Economist on my monthly grocery run to Sault Sainte Marie, a special treat even though it was a week out of date and hidden behind Yoga Journal at Cole’s bookshop. It was that or People, and I was so horrified by the before-and-after pictures of Melanie Griffith’s big-mouth-bass lip surgery that I couldn’t bring it into the house.
The 20-something behind the counter snatched up The Economist.
“Ohmigod! That’s my favourite magazine! And nobody buys it; no one ever reads it except me. I don’t even know why they stock it.” He swiped it reverently. “What’s your favourite section?”
I was unprepared for this level of detail. “I’m sort of a lightweight. The one at the back, “Moreover“, I think it’s called. And the Science and Technology section.” He looked disappointed.
“I like the International Politics.”
“Me too.”
“Are you from the Soo?”
“No, just visiting. I’m from Ireland.”
“Oh.” Disappointed again. “See, I told you no one around here buys this.”
Reader, I think I could have had a Cougar Moment. But he’s right. The Economist is terrific. I never know what my opinions are until I read them in The Economist. I wish the old gray hag had the sense to poach its editors.
From this issue’s Lexington column, a sly description of the Democratic candidates’s wooing of Joe Sixpack.
