Me, as described by the advertisements in this week's New Yorker

I'm very focused on cars. I I drive a Lexus (for intuitive climate control), or a BMW ("Somewhere along the road to success lie the cones of mediocrity, urging you to take the expected route. To this we counter with the new BMW 7 Series, the driver's luxury automobile."). But I'm looking at a new Chrysler Crossfire instead ("supercharged horses take you from zero to nirvana in seconds."). Or a Cadillac. Or maybe those are the cars my parents drive now, and I drive a Jetta, "All grown up. Sort Of." I dream of Jaguars, though, "a car that listens to your every word," although it does not also dispense prescriptions. Max is interested in an Acura, since he'd If I didn't have a kid I'd dream of a Mini Cooper Convertible instead. I do not drive a Jeep Grand Cherokee, or or a Mercury Four Wheel Drive Mariner (intelligent, with Anti-Lock brakes), but I apparently have friends who do, or in any case wish they did, and will break out at any moment and buy one. "Our driveway really is very steep. Yes, we know it's awful, but it just makes us nervous when everyone else is driving along in those Hummers, to be so low. Like, can they even see us in regular old cars? I don't want to be decapitated!" my friends will say, when they show up at dinner in their new SUV. And why'd they drive here anyway, when they live a ten-minute walk away and I'm serving cocktails of Grey Goose Vodka and Grand Marnier (with Glenlivet single malt scotch whiskey to follow the meal? Well, my friend just got new Stilettos at Banana Republic (after briefly considering the sale Pradas at Saks Fifth Avenue), so she can only hobble half a block.

Max will give me a Louis Vuitton watch for my 30th birthday, apparently. Or a cruise on the Queen Mary 2, so that I may take my "place in history". Maybe both. Anyway, definitely some cruise, possibly, if I'm more adventurous, to someplace I'll need to take Malarone tablets (visit their website for a $20 rebate.) He'll wear his new Zegna suit to dinner on the ship. Over dinner, we'll discuss how it's really time for us to have a "Quiet Conversation" of our own, with our good friends at Northwestern Mutual, because we could "really use expert financial advice." Or perhaps we'll just go with a TIAA-CREF account, to salve our consciences while creating wealth (after all, they offer "Financial Services for the Greater Good." ) Also, now that I'm thirty, I'd like a "Stressless" leather chair to relax my body and free my mind. I will furtively read about a "cosmetic breakthrough" that's "better than botox," and consider installing an 'endless pool" to stay fit, since "when exercise is a pleasure, fitness is easy."

God, I hate myself. What a pathetic little poser I am. A grasping, spoiled, snotty, self-indulgent piece of cosmopolitan crap. No wonder America hates me, as described by David Brooks.

And yet, the only ad in this week's New Yorker that has any appeal for me is an ad for a new Richard Feynman book, a collection of his letters (of course, you groan, that's what she'd want. The greasy little intellectual, all hot and bothered over books.) I want no luxury cars, or quiet conversations about wealth creation, or luxury cruises. And I like to think that other New Yorker readers feel the same. And yet, don't the advertisers know what they're doing? So who are these other readers, the ones who want this stuff? Where are they hiding?

Actually, on second thought, I don't want to know. I'd rather not meet them. So come, Mr. Brooks, and write of this new pinnacle of elitism, that I can divide the readership of the New Yorker into two groups: the group of readers the advertisers want to reach, and the deadweight, like me.