The Heart, well, It's a Lonely Hunter

Being a man of distinguished letters, your Mayor received his first issue of The New York Review of Books in the mail this week. (Hey, the newsprint alone probably costs them more than what I’m forking out.)

It contains a long and interesting essay on Colin Powell’s efforts to rehabilitate his once-sterling reputation; a piece by Joyce Carol Oates who apparently has plenty of downtime while cranking out a book or two a year and therefore takes a sweeping look at Margaret Atwood’s canon; a nice review of a Jimmy Stewart biography that somehow neglects to observe that I interviewed the man twice; an appreciation of William Gass, an author I’ve personally found easier to appreciate than to actually read; a review of a Colson Whitehead novel that I read months ago (true, the review is vastly more insightful than mine, but at least mine was timely); something to depress you about Iran and the usual America-is-bad-for-your-health roundelays.

Heady stuff, to be sure. So after assiduously working my way through much of this material, I arrive at the back of the magazine and discover that it has suddenly transformed itself into the classified-ads section of the L.A. Weekly. To wit:

“EROTIC CONVERSATIONS with sensual, intelligent woman, any topic welcome. Visa/MC/AmEx.�

“EROTIC, INTELLIGENT, IMAGINATIVE CONVERSATION. Uninhibited exploration of your sexual fantasies. Discretion assured.�

“INDULGE IN A FETISH SESSION with discreet lady in the privacy of her fully equipped London Knightsbridge apartment.�

“EROTIC EXPLOSION. Let me blow your mind, your ultimate erogenous zone. Provocative talk with educated beauty. No limits.�

“TANTRIC PAMPERING BY MATURE BEAUTY. Private, elegant, East Side suite.�

And so on. Apparently, the stereotype is true: Bookish types are in no way equipped to deal with, as they say, “the ladies.�

In a way, one should be impressed by the way these advertisements (please: Read the word after the British fashion: ad-VERT-iss-ments) strive to emphasize their elitist natures over their more obviously brazenly salacious appeals to lonely if intellectually accomplished guys who just feel the need to, well, you know. On the other hand, the pretense feels utterly fake. What are these women going to say to their ostensibly erudite clients, anyway: “Oh, I’m Madame Bovary, feel free to ravish me, you scoundrel!� Trashy advertising may be, indeed, trashy, but at least it’s more honest.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a pressing appointment with Lady Darlington.