Lazy Sunday

As I was avoiding the noisy too-self-conscious celebrating that's happening even as I type across the street from my house, I tried to read the last month's worth of New Yorker offerings, I realized something. Specifically, that I just don't give a damn about the intrigues of the morning televised newsmagazine shows, not am I really interested in the doings of some poets who are not currently famous and with whose work the article does nothing to effectively illuminate (total lack of examples, people, what the hell--it's like saying a restaurant is good and then when asked why you say it's because the food was deliciously prepared by cooks in a kitchen who have neato personalities: so what, why is that good food?), and etc. Yes, I am complainy this week, but so what?

When did I suddenly become a misanthrope?