Us People
In times of trouble, when I'm not near a local Target store, I have been known to buy a copy of People, Us Weekly, or even OK! magazine. I hide them deep in a grocery bag full of girly items, which Brad would not deign to unpack; then I dart away as soon as possible to enjoy 20 minutes of unfettered K-Fed, Brangelina, Camilla and Charles, etc.
The (only) slightly less embarrassing version of this is Vanity Fair, which I have shamelessly and openly read cover to cover each month since 1997. I quote loudly for anyone in hearing range the latest bons mots from Nick Tosches, my literary and journalistic hero; I summarize the salient points from the salubrious words of that cranky expat, Christopher Hitchens; I devour the exotic witticisms of the unnecessarily hunky and sensuously named Sebastian Junger. But none of these can compare to the creme de la creme of this fussy periodical: the diary of one Dominick Dunne.
Each month, or whenever he's not otherwise occupied, we get a taste of intrigue from the recesses of Old Hollywood, bits of testimony from current celebrity courtroom hoo-hahs (this month, word from the Phil Spector trial), and accounts of you-had-to-be-there events involving foreign dignitaries and wives of the captains of industry.
Why, you may ask yourself, does a sub-Ivy liberal arts graduate with a promising future occupy herself with these things? I suspect that there are more of you out there than just me, who can't bring themselves to subscribe, but who are disappointed when the hairdresser is finally ready for them.
The (only) slightly less embarrassing version of this is Vanity Fair, which I have shamelessly and openly read cover to cover each month since 1997. I quote loudly for anyone in hearing range the latest bons mots from Nick Tosches, my literary and journalistic hero; I summarize the salient points from the salubrious words of that cranky expat, Christopher Hitchens; I devour the exotic witticisms of the unnecessarily hunky and sensuously named Sebastian Junger. But none of these can compare to the creme de la creme of this fussy periodical: the diary of one Dominick Dunne.
Each month, or whenever he's not otherwise occupied, we get a taste of intrigue from the recesses of Old Hollywood, bits of testimony from current celebrity courtroom hoo-hahs (this month, word from the Phil Spector trial), and accounts of you-had-to-be-there events involving foreign dignitaries and wives of the captains of industry.
Why, you may ask yourself, does a sub-Ivy liberal arts graduate with a promising future occupy herself with these things? I suspect that there are more of you out there than just me, who can't bring themselves to subscribe, but who are disappointed when the hairdresser is finally ready for them.
posted by expediency101 at 10:55 PM
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