HUMOR
I’m Sitting on My Porch Because the New Yorker Told Me To
Stupid magazine.
I’m sitting on my porch.
It’s about a million degrees outside and even the dog, who worships the sun and will lie in the grass until physically picked up like a sack of furry potatoes and returned indoors, has said “Fuck this” and is standing there pointed at the door, which is how she communicates.
The only way I ever knows she needs or wants anything is because she points her body at it, like a compass needle. Poor Hershey — heart of gold, brain the size of a chickpea.
I’m sitting on my porch, which I never do, because The New Yorker published this article about how great porches are and what a shame it is that nobody sits on their porch anymore.
There’s even a bit about some crunchy private school in Vermont or someplace equally tie-dyed where the kids sleep outside year round, even in the winter, and one former student says she still sleeps with a window open all year long.
This sounds like child abuse to me, but what do I know.
Porches, the article moans lugubriously, “are semi-magical spaces, intermediate between inside and outside.”
They embody “the benefits of public life, the thrills of nature, the…
