This week the parity rate nudges up one point to 35%. However one female author, Lizzie Widdecombe, is counted twice with an article and a restaurant review.
And Woodie Allen (ugh) does Shouts and Murmurs this issue. As with Mac Wellman's intro to "The Bad Infinity" which I blogged about last week, Allen also name-drops Kierkegaard, although in his case it's a feeble attempt at humor. I guess Kierkegaard is the prestige name to drop for 70-something men. The New Yorker just can't stop worshipping Woody Allen, no matter how old and tiresome his schtick grows. I would look forward to his finally dropping dead, but no doubt an entire issue of The New Yorker will be devoted to his wonderousness. It's always a trade-off, isn't it?
I will say that Allen's son Ronan Farrow has turned out to be quite the hotty - mainly because he looks much more like his mother.