What Time Is It, Eustace Tilley?: Time for a New Yorker Wristwatch

Don’t feel bad. It happens to the best of us: pesky professional and personal obligations prevent you from finishing that sweeping John McPhee piece. You miss Jeffrey Toobin‘s latest dispatch from the Annals of Law and lose all perspective on the Supreme Court. “If only I didn’t have to eat! To sleep!” you exclaim, shaking your fist at the sky. “Then I would be able to read every word of The New Yorker, every week, like architect Deborah Berke does.”