While the New Yorker often seems determined to scare away all but the most erudite of its readership, it occasionally mixes in some populist features amongst its 5,500-word tracts on olive oil. No, really, it does. If you can somehow make it past the latest insights into Emily Dickinson's epistolary relationship with Thomas Wentworth Higginson, you'll be rewarded with something you can really sink your teeth into: an essay on how much Coldplay sucks.
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