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.