I’ve just been reading Mark Steyn in Commentary. He reviews a book by David Denby, a film critic for The New Yorker. And the review reminded me why I stopped reading The New Yorker — reading it regularly, that is.

I can actually date it — and I can date it because I wrote about this matter in Impromptus, on November 27, 2002. (Ain’t Google grand?) In a recent issue, Denby had reviewed 8 Mile, the movie about the rapper Eminem, Detroit, etc. (I am a Detroit-area kid, incidentally.) Denby wrote, “People who are convinced that Eminem is destroying America might want to consider the delicacy of the white-black friendships in ‘8 Mile.’ (Perhaps the spectre of such friendships is what right-wingers actually hate most.)”

I found that almost indescribably depressing. And I decided to be done with The New Yorker, after many years of reading it. I mean, is that what they think of us? Is that what they really think of conservatives like me — we’re all Klansmen, in hoods or not? I’m afraid so. And, by the way, if David Denby would like to compare his “white-black friendships” with mine . . .

Never had The New Yorker struck me as so parochial and blinkered — painfully so. Do these people ever get out? Do they ever meet anyone a smidgeon different from themselves? I spend a considerable amount of time with conservatives — with “right-wingers.” And the notion that, when it comes to Eminem and his world, it is “white-black friendships” that are the source of concern . . .

Anyway, there comes a time when you have to stop trying to reason with people. And when you have to take “I hate you” for an answer.

Okay, then!

P.S. Did you get The New Yorker’s spelling of “specter” — “spectre”? Are they an American magazine or what? I mean, that’s the kind of affectation in which I just can’t coöperate!