the New Yorker
I first fell in love with the New Yorker when I was 12 or 13. At that age, the subscription was my parents', not mine, but I loved puzzling over the cartoons. Later on it was all about the poetry; my fridge is still littered with yellowing scraps I've torn out and saved over the years. Later still it was the fiction that compelled me most; I'd open each week's issue excited to see whose short story I got to read that week. And most recently, it's the reporting and essays that I love most. How do we fix light pollution? What's in an epiphany? It's not really news, but these are questions I'd much have answered than the fear-mongering questions posed on the average local news show.