Glossed Over

Bazaar Officially Out of Worthwhile People to Profile

The May issue of Bazaar includes utterly drool-worthy interviews with both Gwen Stefani and Dita Von Teese.  And by drool, we mean that wayward strand of saliva that slips out when you fall into a deep slumber.  The celeb articles are packed with mesmerizing revelations, such as two full paragraphs of discussion about Gwen’s hair—she bleaches it!  who knew?—complete with a quote from her stylist, and then Dita makes the shocking confession she never imagined dancing partially clothed at age 34 as her profession.  Really probing questioning there, Bazaar.

Still, it was “A Fashionable Life: Jacqui Getty” that got to us.  Who is she, we wondered, and why does she merit ten pages?  (Dita was allotted only four, by comparison, while Gwen garnered thirteen and the cover.)

Fortunately, Bazaar explained Getty’s worthiness:

She’s at the nexus of hipster Hollywood.  And for costume designer Jacqui Getty, it’s all about a laid-back lifestyle that blends friends and family and fashion and film.

No, really, what is she doing in this issue?

…the elegantly furnished home says a lot about Jacqui Getty, a contributor to this magazine. [emphasis ours]

Ah!  Like it’s not bad enough that we’re fed a constant diet of celebrities, the magazines are now cannibalizing their own staff and trying to convince us how attention-worthy their own employees are.  At least make it fair, Bazaar.  Instead of just cycling through the masthead, why not award this slot to the employee of the month?

Anyway, if you don’t already dislike Jacqui because she’s “at the nexus of hipster Hollywood”—which, since we live in Los Angeles, we can assure you is plenty contemptible—this description of her house should provide some fodder:

Neither a mansion filled with grand halls nor a museum filled with antiques…the home was bought for her by Francis Ford and Eleanor Coppola…

And this:

[Marrying a] Getty could have changed even the most well-grounded of girls, but Jacqui has stayed her artistic, bohemian self.

Wow!  What persistence that must have taken, remaining “artistic” while living in a house decorated with the works of Basquiat, Ruscha, and Pollock.

And the evidence of Jacqui’s bohemian spirit?  We suppose it’s the mere fact that, in the accompanying photo shoot, her husband is dressed as “fabled English sea captain Lord Nelson,” and her 20-year-old daughter is outfitted as a “naughty kitten,” a look apparently best achieved by wearing nothing but fishnets below the waist.  Seriously.

Ever dutiful, Bazaar doesn’t neglect that most tired of clichés about Jacqui’s tremendous personal style.

For a couture shopping spree in Paris prior to her wedding, Jacqui showed up at Chanel in a grungeworthy down jacket and sneakers…

Because not only are grungy coats incredibly stylish, they’re appropriate for all occasions.  We’re learning so much from her already!

And lest you think she’s merely a fashion vanguard, the article stresses that Jacqui is dedicated to her craft.

“…I have a work ethic,” she says, noting her 5:00 a.m. call time tomorrow morning for the latest Wes Anderson film, The Darjeeling Limited, where she has spent much of her time recently outfitting Owen Wilson in the bathroom of a tiny Staten Island restaurant.

As if the time your employer requires you to appear has anything to do with your devotion to the task.  (We can say this with certainty, as we begrudgingly arrived at one job at 7:30 a.m. every day for 18 months.)  And spending vast amounts of time tucked in a small space with a somewhat attractive movie star? Surely that requires Herculean commitment to the job!

Even aside from having to, you know, work for a living, it’s tough being a Getty.  See, she can’t just socialize with anyone.  Rather, Jacqui maintains impossibly high standards for her associates.

“I just love people who are creative and interesting,” explains Jacqui of her unscripted social life.

Which is noteworthy, since most of us prefer to pal around with people who are unimaginative and dull.

Further complicating Jacqui’s existence is that she’s deeply intellectual.

“I’m like, Hey, let’s go have fun! And [my husband]’s like, By the way, the science theory on this is…”

But let’s not forget she’s also unbelievably generous.  The proof is this anecdote from close personal friend Demi Moore (who, we’re guessing, satisfies the rubric for “creative and interesting”):

The two women often shop together and inevitably end up spotting—and buying—the same things.  “Neither of us cares if we have the same jacket,” says Moore.

What a giving soul!  And to think some people have a totally skewed sense of perspective about such matters.

After such a fawning look at Jacqui, we eagerly await next month’s profile of a different  staffer.  Take your best shot, Bazaar—we refuse to believe there’s anyone on the payroll even less deserving of ten pages.

The Week: Anne Slowey Still Hasn't Eaten a Thing

•  If you’€™ve been lamenting that In Style is too heavy to carry around, fret not!  Now, in a move every other magazine will soon follow, style content is available on your cell phone.

•  Debate continues over the veracity and/or sanity of Anne Slowey’s self-reported Fashion Week diet.

•  Jane wants you to take your top off.  No, seriously.

•  Speaking of topless women and Jane, this is pretty much all you need to read from the Drew Barrymore interview.

•  And after receiving yet another hilariously awful email from Bazaar’€™s subscriber customer service, we found a phone number (which, naturally, was on the website all along).  We’ll have a full report on our call next week.

Elle's Anne Slowey: Starvation and Style Go Hand-in-Skeletal-Hand

Finally, an explanation for Elle’s Anne Slowey.  The flighty fashionista, whom we’ve long accused of simple idiocy, actually has a genuine excuse for her bizarre advice and rambling tangents.

See, just like any good fashion victim, she doesn’t eat.  What, you think you could write any better on a diet composed almost entirely solely of skim lattes and nutrition supplements?  Besides, everyone who’s anyone knows that how you look is more important than anything else, and at this rate, Anne must be approaching skeletal.  Chic!

Check out the food diary she kept for New York magazine’s coverage of Fashion Week.  Here’s her self-reported intake for one day (though you might want to merely skim her list of vitamins—it’s lengthy):

7:30 A.M. Home

Two 1,000-mg. Emergen-C with seven mineral ascorbates and 32 mineral complexes, one ounce of Super KMH, Mona Vie (berry extract), aloe juice, chlorophyll, two Nature’s Way Fenu-Thyme, one advance natural FloroMax, three Wellness Formula tablets, twenty drops Super Lysine Plus, two Theraveda Usha daytime stress formula tablets.

10:30 Sant Ambroeus

Milanese eggs and iced skim latte.

2:00 P.M. Patrik Ervell

Bottle of water and glass of white wine.

3:00 Waiting for the United Bamboo Show

Water.

4:00 Waiting for the Diane Von Furstenberg Show

Water.

5:00 Waiting for the Luella Bartley Show

Water.

6:00 Waiting for the Phillip Lim Show

Water.

7:00 Waiting for the Tuleh Show

Water.

8:30 At a Friend’s London Terrace Apartment Watching TV

Two glasses of red wine, Camembert and crackers, three olives during Prince’s Super Bowl halftime performance.

11:30 Home

Repeat Fenu-Thyme, Wellness Formula tablets, and add Theraveda Nisha nighttime stress formula.

So it’s totally understandable that she dispenses terrible advice, considering her brain must be more or less pickled by her alcohol intake that appears unmitigated by anything so exotic as actual food.  Maybe she believes that swallowing her own meager weight in vitamins every morning is nourishment enough.  Or maybe she’s gearing up to claim a spot of her own on the runway—amazingly, model Denise Mullins actually ‘fesses up to eating more than Slowey does, and everyone knows models don’t do anything so base as consuming food.  Watch your back, Denise!  If this fashion reporting thing doesn’t work out for Slowey (and, at the very least, it sure isn’t working for us), she may use her bony claws in an attempt to claim your spot on the runway.

[via Gothamist]

W Widens the Gap Between Fashion People and the Rest of Us

This isn’t exactly a groundbreaking revelation, but we’re convinced that fashion people are truly a different breed of human.  They exist on an entirely discrete level—where it’s okay to be on a timetable that adheres only vaguely to the actual constraints of hours and minutes (really—have you ever been to a fashion show that’s commenced within 30 minutes of its stated start time?), a place where no one cares whether your clothes are weather-appropriate as long as you’re fashionable. 

So it shouldn’t have been surprising when, in the course of reading the February issue of W, we realized once again how utterly off-putting and out of touch these stylemakers can be.  Or, in the case of Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana and their “Dolce Vita,” how stiflingly dull and non-erotic their idea of “sexy tableaux” can be.  Like this:

Is this supposed to make us feel something other than derision?  Should we be stunned that a man—a nearly naked man, at that—is wearing heels?  Shock!  Confusion!  Overwhelming urge to turn the page!

At first, we thought perhaps we just didn’t understand the pictorial.  See, we aren’t truly fashion people—we like to arrive places on time and cover our toes when it rains.  But, the more we study this alleged portrayal of “divine decadence,” the more bored we get, and the more we’re convinced that this is a case of attempting to shock us into believing there’s substance.  Sorry, guys.  We never realized that the display of so much human flesh could only be exceptional in its sheer creepiness and dreariness.

Speaking of creepy, this issue of W also includes “The Stylist,” an interview with Hollywood fashionista du jour Rachel Zoe.  Sure, she’s everywhere—it’s like she’s cloned herself—but did you realize that she’s actually shunning the spotlight?  No, really, just ask her.

...and [she] claims to be uncomfortable with the fact that she’s become something of a celebrity herself.

“I’m scared that it’s going to be gone,” Zoe says.  “…I just don’t ever want to lose sight of why I’m here.”

Is “here” planet Earth or L.A.?  And why is she here, exactly, wherever “here” may be?  Client Maria Sharapova weighs in:

“…I would never have spent three grand on an Yves Saint Laurent cashmere sweater, but she taught me that key pieces are really important.  And I’m wearing that sweater right now.”

A noble mission, to be sure, spreading the word about cashmere sweaters.  Wouldn’t want those designer goods to languish in obscurity! 

And what about those nasty rumors regarding illicit substances and her clients’ shared trait of sudden thinness?

“I’m so drug clueless…I take Tylenol once in a while, and that’s about it…And I would never in a billion years tell someone to lose weight.  Ever.”

Oh, so it’s just a coincidence that Zoe’s clients (including Lindsay Lohan, Keira Knightley, and former Zoe-phile Nicole Richie) have dropped serious pounds practically overnight.  Probably they’re just following her example by racing around vintage clothing shops (as she does in this piece), popping the occasional OTC painkiller, and, like Zoe, eating “tons of fish and vegetables.”  She should write a book with a surefire diet plan like that.

And if she truly wants to leave the spotlight to her movie star clients, she could, oh, not give interviews and pose for photos in magazines.  But that would make sense to us non-fashion people and, for better or for worse, Rachel Zoe is not one of us.

Vogue's Clash of the Fashion Cultures

From Vogue’s “Trading Places,” January:

Can preppy Vogue writer Florence Kane and ultrafeminine girl-about-town Tinsley Mortimer switch styles?

Ooh, the suspense!  We’re guessing that the switch will be tough on everyone, but by the end, both women will have learned a valuable lesson about personal style.  Maybe Florence really can wear pink and bows!

The participants in this daring social experiment couldn’t be more different.  Florence describes herself as

a Brooklynite Vogue writer who shops mostly downtown

by which we think she’s trying to come off as edgy even though she spends her weekends in the Catskills.

Tinsley, meanwhile, is a

New York social girl and purse designer

and she spends her weekends in the Hamptons.  Fasten your seatbelts, everyone—sounds like we’re headed for a full-bore clash of cultures here!

Then the real excitement unfolds:  They declare their common love for Miu Miu.  Tinsley balks at a cardigan.  Florence feels uncomfortable in a form-fitting gown.  Thrilling!  Reading about other people shopping is always an enlightening and helpful experience.

Just when we’re beginning to despair that these two will never find any common ground, an uproarious experience at Paul Smith brings the two brave shoppers together.  We’ll let Florence describe it for you:

The pencil skirt, blouse, and sweater are too long for her, and the ankle boots, which look enormous on her tiny frame, have us in hysterics.

Ha!  That’s...well...actually, we don’t quite see the humor in the situation.

A photo caption tries to explain:

A low boot looks laughably large on Tinsley’s doll-like frame.

Looks pretty normal to us, but we guess you had to be there.  We’re sure it was hilarious.  Could these two fashion pioneers be wrong about anything?

Fortunately, after an exhausting day in the trenches of Soho’s trendiest emporiums, our intrepid explorers arrive at a happy ending: the women realize the value of sartorial compromise.  Still, one crucial question remains unanswered:

Could Tinsley actually take to wearing flats?

As it turns out, the answer is…it depends.  How could they leave such a question without a solid answer?  Clearly, groundbreaking fashion anthropologists like Florence and Tinsley require more than a mere three pages in Vogue to bring us definitive insight into the fashion stylings of women from such disparate backgrounds.  We sincerely hope Vogue continues to sponsor this important research.

Personality Not Necessary for Holiday Fun, Says Allure

From Allure’s “The Bewitching Hour,” December, comes some helpful advice for holiday parties:

“I put on a really fun disco-y Dolce & Gabbana dress.  It makes me feel as if I’m someone else,” [“nightlife empress” and Bungalow 8 owner Amy] Sacco says.

Because, you know, being yourself simply isn’t enough. 

But in the unlikely event your outfit isn’t quite capable of transforming you into someone more fascinating, there’s still hope.  Sacco continues:

“And don’t forget the jewelry.  Add a little sparkle, especially if you don’t feel as of you have a sparkling personality that evening.”

Oh, okay.  Good to know that if our personality (and wardrobe) is lacking, we can still make up for it with our accessories.  Cheers!

Daily Mini: Bulimia The Best New Accessory for Winter

From the Daily Mini’s “How You Indulge…and De-bulge,” December, comes a suggestion that confirms our worst suspicions about the fashion industry’s influence on body image:

The only way to stay thin is to have some sort of functioning eating disorder. I’m exercise-bulimic. As a short person, I’m terrified of becoming squat.

—Simon Doonan, Barneys New York

Leave it to the retail guy to spin what was the provenance of the rich and famous into a holiday must-have for the whole world.  It wasn’t enough for every teenage girl to get a Vuitton bag—now they get bulimia, too.  Is nothing sacred and exclusive to the fashion industry elite?

The Week: A Preponderance of Potential Disasters

• Watch this video.  Suddenly the existence of a 30-year-old virgin won’t seem so improbable.

• Marie Claire may be down in ad pages (scroll to the bottom), but it is way, way up in breasts.

• Is Jane stealing from Details? Does anyone really want to claim credit for this idea anyway?

• Looking for work?  You too can be the next Andrea Sachs Lauren Weisberger brutally overworked Anna Wintour minion.

Think There Are No Stupid Questions? Think Again, Glamour

It’s not often that an interviewee calls out the interviewer, as occurs in Glamour’s “Sandra Bullock: The Undercover Artist,” December. Sure, those of us at home (ahem) may be thinking unprintable thoughts about the reporter, but it’s rare we see those musings voiced so plainly:

Glamour: Speaking of Harper Lee, how did it feel to, for the first time, play someone around 40, basically your own age?

Sandra Bullock: I don’t know how to answer that. It’s a stupid question.

Unfortunately, such a total lack of disregard for the reporter’s feelings is not widespread among actresses. Really, it’s a shame, because we would have loved to see Rachel Weisz excoriate Carole Radziwill for this overly chummy salvo in “Lunch Date: Meet ‘The Smart One’”:

CR: Where did you end up putting the Oscar?

RW: It doesn’t have a special place yet.

CR: Can I have it?

We wonder what kind of response Radziwill was expecting—“Why yes, and take my newborn son, too!”—but we’re not going to spend too much time pondering what might also prove to be a stupid question. After all, we’d have a hard time believing that, at that moment, Carole Radziwill was thinking anything at all.

Outdated and Out of Style in Elle

Wondering how to wear red? Here’s some advice on the topic from Elle’s “Fashion Know-It-All,” December: 

The trick is to wear it casually and rein in your personality. No shouting or guffawing unless you’re Jerry Hall, please. The one thing I learned in school is that it’s okay to draw attention to yourself if you remain tactfully mute.

“Rein in your personality”? “Remain tactfully mute”?

Apparently, columnist Anne Slowey’s ludicrous notion of propriety forbids women from doing anything outlandish—like, we’re guessing, daring to speak in public—while wearing anything but the muddiest, most camouflaging shades of gray.

Next month in Elle, Anne Slowey tackles the thorny question of what to wear when appearing in public with a male chaperone—you wouldn’t want to clash with him!—and lists the fashion essentials for every woman’s trousseau. And is your dowry big enough? Find out in the January issue!

Keeping a Talley on André in Vogue

Something unusual happened when we sat down to read André Leon Talley’s column in the November issue of Vogue. Sure, the usual wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm our senses, but for one brief moment, we happened to agree with one of his pronouncements. Despite his past transgressions—for instance, acting like wearing Miu Miu shoes to high school is perfectly normal—he managed to string together one perfectly reasonable sentence.

If you ask me, most grown women, women with careers, are not dying to revisit the trapeze dress or the baby doll.

Totally logical, isn’t it? We were nearly shocked into speechlessness.

Unfortunately, Talley is, at this point in his piece, digging himself out of a hole. Why? Because near the beginning of the piece, he said this:

“It is very elegant, this suite of rooms,” said my friend Manolo Blahnik, who elevatored down from his room upstairs…

Elevatored? Elevatored?

Good thing André specified, because otherwise we would have thought that Blahnik, oh, teleported from one place to the other. And had he not chosen to coin such an unfortunate (and unnecessary term) for intra-building travel, we might have finished the article thinking that André was a levelheaded kind of guy who earned his seat in the fashion-critic pantheon with cogent commentary.

Sadly, Not Everyone In Vogue Is In Vogue

From Vogue’s “Contributors,” October:

(Yes, we really do read the contributors’ bios every month. We know.)

What is your greatest fall fashion indulgence?

Janine Di Giovanni: “My new flat on the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris (on the same street where Hemingway and Gertrude Stein lived)”

We’re troubled enough by this that we’re going to break our usual form and directly address the offender in question.  Ahem.

Dear Janine:

First, an apartment is not a “fall fashion indulgence,” and every other contributor disclosed a fashion or beauty purchase. Pay attention to the question! Unless you deliberately ignored the question in order to show off your apparent wherewithal, in which case, you’re beyond our help.

And second: Living on the street that Hemingway and Stein once lived on does not in anyway associate you with their literary legacy. The same building, the same apartment—sure, that’s interesting. But the same street? You’re stretching. It’s a great little factoid to share with your pals, but to announce that to the entire readership of Vogue? That’s trying too hard, Janine.

Finally:  that author picture. Sitting on a slipcovered sofa in what appears to be an ill-fitting housedress, your hair messily pulled back, is supposed to give us the impression that you’re a serious journalist.  We’re supposed to think that you’re so consumed with writing in the leatherbound journal you’re holding that you haven’t a single moment to spare on improving your surroundings or your appearance. But what it really projects is that you’re pretentious, or a slob, or both.

Love,

Glossed Over

P.S. On the plus side, your story was fascinating!

An Eyeroll-Inducing André in Vogue

André Leon Talley is either completely lacking in perspective, or his weight loss—“70 pounds thinner than when I began my diet odyssey, dear readers!”—has consisted primarily of brain cells. 

Our evidence for making such an assertion? His more-ludicrous-than-usual column in October’s Vogue, in which he goes shopping with seventeen-year-old Zara Beard. 

For her debutante ball.

Which will be held in Paris.

As if that premise isn’t nauseating enough—a teenager who exercises “up to four hours a day” and has seemingly endless amounts of cash to drop on designer clothes? That’s more terrifying than a marathon of My Super Sweet Sixteen—André writes up their stops at Gucci, Chloe, and Louis Vuitton as if they’re perfectly normal occurrences. 

He even gives us the obligatory disclaimer:

Zara knows what she likes, yes, and what looks good on her. But she is not spoiled. She isn’t one of these tabloid heiress/pricensses.

And this is where we learned that ALT’s definition of spoiled must differ greatly from ours, because a mere paragraph prior to this statement, the teen snatched up a $1,300 pair of Christian Louboutin stilettos. Not spoiled, eh?

And then there’s this:

[At] Miu Miu, Zara fell for a pair of navy velvet ballerina slippers encrusted with crystal decoration. “These are great for my school uniform, which is navy,” she said. “I can wear them to school.”

A teenage girl angling for something pricey with the excuse that she can wear it to school? That may be the only vaguely normal thing about this article.  The part where André places an “emergency call” to his nutritionist certainly doesn’t qualify.

We Read It So You Don't Have To: The Un-Lucky Life of Jean Godfrey-June

We hate to admit it, but this week’s installment of We Read It So You Don’t Have To will only save you the time it takes to peruse one page of September’s Lucky.  Still, it’s an egregiously obnoxious one page, so we’ll forge ahead with our summary of Jean Godfrey-June’s “Beauty Spy.”

This month, just like every other month, she initially doubts that she’ll like the product she’ll eventually promote. Is the fragrance too strong? Can any anti-aging ingredient live up to the dramatic claims of its manufacturers? Will the results really be worth the thirty seconds a day it takes to apply the product?

Then, also like every other month, she relates a dull anecdote only vaguely related to the product in question. She rides an elevator with someone who comments on the way she looks and/or smells. Her kids and/or husband question her religious use of some new-fangled device. Or there was this one thing that happened a very long time ago that, through a highly dubious sense of which topics are related, she manages to connect to the product in question.

And—you guessed it, just like every other month—she falls irrevocably in love with the item, cost be damned, and she hoards enough to last through a nuclear winter.

At this point, if these columns are to be believed, the woman must own enough beauty products to stock a Sephora.  And have you seen her on TV? She doesn’t even appear to wear makeup. What is she doing with all of this stockpiled stuff? Should we organize an intervention? Is Lucky complicit in her addiction by depicting her as a charmingly slender and well-dressed cartoon character each month?

But never mind all that negativity—it’s not important. We choose to look at the upside of this potentially disastrous situation: if Jean Godfrey-June continues to trot out these tired tropes month after month, we won’t need to bother reading her page. And we don’t have to relate a boring tale from our childhood to know that skipping this nonsense is something we can recommend to everyone.

The further adventures of Jean Godfrey-June: Lucky Sets New Standard for Passive-Aggressiveness, Long Lashes; Now Which Staffer Will Take Care of Her Hair?

Photo of Jean Godfrey-June and her ever-increasing collection from the News and Observer

Vogue Momentarily Manages Normalcy, Politeness

Vogue normally brings us up close and personal to people with whom, given the choice, we’d rather not share the planet (William Norwich, for instance, though we acknowledge that his slice of Earth and ours are literally and figuratively quite removed). Happily, August’s issue of Vogue bucked the trend and introduced us to two people whose sensibilities are a bit closer to our own:

First, we were pleasantly surprised (and our sentiments validated) by Dana Ridell’s letter in “Talking Back: Letters from Readers”:

I feel compelled to ask why you insist on publishing the drivel turned out by the irritatingly pretentious Plum Sykes…It brings down the whole tone of Vogue.

We couldn’t agree more, Dana. Now can someone please write a letter about André Leon Talley?

After that small triumph, we were sure things would take a turn for the worse, especially when we arrived at the typically ludicrous “Norwich Notes.” But in this month’s edition, “Fashionably Late?,” actress Chloe Sevigny gained several points of our esteem with this bold statement:

“I pride myself on my punctuality,” Chloe said…“I don’t want to make people wait. That’s obnoxious.”

Her comments were in stark contrast to the other luminaries in the article—including Vera Wang (who was late for the White House!), Cynthia Rowley, Shalom Harlow, and Gemma Ward—who freely admit to compulsive tardiness, and we hope her comments were directed squarely at those blasé latecomers. Catty comments in the hallowed pages of Vogue?  Delicious. 

Also, we’re fervently hoping punctuality will become cool.

Alas, our surprisingly pleasant trip through the pages of Vogue screeched to a halt when we happened upon this silliness uttered by jewelry designer Temple St. Clair:

…Sometimes my customers in their 40s and 50s will complain about how their hands look. I tell them, “Wear a big ring and nobody’s going to be looking at your hands!”

Unless Temple is advising her clients to wear their rings on a chain around their wrinkly necks like they wore their boyfriends’ class rings, a flashy bauble will almost certainly draw attention to their hands.  That is the point, isn’t it?

Still, it’s better we came crashing back to earth so swiftly. This issue also contains an article canonizing the Olsen twins because—gasp!  shock!—they don’t use a stylist to pick out their clothes, which, given their heavily layered looks of the past, is not at all surprising.  We’re already certain we won’t enjoy that profile at all.

Lucky Sets New Standard for Passive-Aggressiveness, Long Lashes

Lucky’s beauty editor, Jean Godfrey-June, uses her July column to relate an unusual ritual taking place at the magazine’s HQ:

We all love one mascara until one person’s lashes mysteriously look longer than everybody else’s, and two days later the entire office has run out and bought the new version du jour.

Sheesh. It’s like “Harrison Bergeron” come to life—one staffer simply cannot have longer lashes than anyone else! Everyone must be equal, or at least have equally full and glossy eyelashes.

How does this work, exactly? How do Lucky staffers manage to publish a magazine while so utterly wrapped up in the quest for the longest lashes? It must be incredibly time consuming keeping tabs on everyone: They have to ruthlessly inspect each woman in the office to see who maintains the lushest eyelashes, they must interrogate to find out what product(s) she’s using, they need to scheme to compensate for any kind of genetic advantage she may have, they’re forced to run to Duane Reade/Macy’s/Sephora and purchase those potions at any cost, and then it is absolutely crucial that they apply their purchases religiously. Then just show up to work—voilà! Everyone’s equal! No one has any kind of advantage whatsoever!—and repeat as necessary.

This anecdote only contributes to the not-entirely-misguided notion that fashion magazines set unrealistic beauty standards for women—based on Godfrey-June’s story, merely working at one is a fatal blow to any sense of individuality.  Worse, the competitiveness makes working at Lucky sound akin to being back in high school, except that in high school the skirmishes were occasionally related to something that actually mattered.

Unless, of course, winning the unofficial crown of “Longest Eyelashes in the Office” is truly important to these women.  In which case we probably shouldn’t put much stock in anything they say.

Talley Discovers Real Reason Behind Bad Hair Days

As a rule, we are not fans of André Leon Talley. And his column in the June issue of Vogue (this month’s theme?  charity) once again proves why.

While he avoided disclosing his current caloric intake (bravo!), he certainly didn’t garner any points by quoting himself and gratuitously dropping names at the same time.  If a prize were awarded for self-aggrandizing behavior, we’re certain he’d have won it just for this one sentence:

As I said to Oprah, on Oprah: “Darling, everyone has a stylist. Even President Clinton!”

Wow, André knows everyone! He’s incredibly well-connected! And he can prove his passing acquaintance with all these famous people by mentioning their names as many times as possible!

So we do have an actual question.  We’re confused by this:

[Model Karolina Kurkova’s] friend…managed her look, from her hair (a politically correct Grace Kelly chignon)…

A politically correct chignon? How can hair be politically correct? And, worse, what kind of hair is politically incorrect? (We’re probably not the only Vogue reader curious about this—we’d like to have an inkling that, in today’s sensitive political climate, something as benign as our hair could make a statement.) Would hair accessorized with mink or blood diamonds qualify as politically incorrect?  Perhaps it was a monumental error in judgment on our part, but we’ve always firmly believed that our hair lacks any mechanism for political expression.

On second thought, maybe hair—all hair, everywhere— is oppressed, and that’s why we’ve never heard of anyone’s locks voting or writing a letter to the editor. We suggest André use his quasi-celebrity status to immediately organize a charity gala to raise awareness of the issue, and then provide a thorough explanation of the matter in his next column.  It’s the least he can do to combat misunderstood hair worldwide.

Secretly No Longer Taking Them Seriously

From Elle’s “Fashion Reporter,” February:

Who’s your secret crush?

“It’s not a who, it’s a what: Platinum blond hair…”—Donatella Versace

“The Golden Girls are a fetish of mine.”—Jessie Randall of Loeffler Randall

“Huck Finn.”—Kate and Laura Mulleavy of Rodarte 

Hey, designers, here’s a thought: Next time a journalist asks you to reveal your secret crush, why not demur? You’ll look unspeakably cool, and you’ll prevent the awkwardness of having revealed to the entire world that you harbor affection for people who don’t even exist and, if they did, would be totally inappropriate for you to have feelings for anyway.

Oh, and hair. Did we mention Donatella having a crush on hair?  So weird.

Other fashion designers making us squirm:  Wait, There’s More?; Why Designers Don’t Usually Appear in Fashion Spreads

Photo courtesy of DailyCeleb

Don't Call Us Darling

From Vogue’s December issue, introducing a bizarre tribute to The Wizard of Oz starring Keira Knightley:

No, darlings, we’re absolument pas in Kansas anymore!

We’ll no longer have to merely accuse Vogue of being utterly ridiculous.  Now, darlings, it’s quite apparent.

But you probably would have figured that out much earlier, on page 114, right after Andre Leon Talley compares Maureen Dowd (who, in her ubiquitousness, is this month's Tom Ford) to Samuel Pepys.  Kind of difficult to imagine A.L.T. reading the classics, isn’t it? 

As for the magazine directly addressing its readers as “darling”: pretentious, hopelessly stuck in the 1980s, or completely off-its-rocker insane?  We vote for all of the above.

When Words Fail, Make Up New Ones

We imagine Glamour must be a utopian workplace for cancer survivors. They get first crack at the morning tray of bagels, they don’t have to make coffee when they finish the pot, and they don’t even need to use real words in their articles.

At least that’s what we concluded after reading the current “Cancer Diary,” wherein Erin Zammett, mostly avoiding stereotypical bridal hysteria, waxes about her wedding and then befouls the English language with made-up words.

For instance, there’s this description of the bridesmaids’ gowns:

I’d picked out very sexy, boob-y Vera Wang bridesmaid dresses.

“Boob-y”? Using the ample context clues provided, we’re pretty sure this is not a reference to the tropical seabird. We’d try “low-cut,” perhaps “revealing.”

Then, Erin recounts guests’ reactions to the wedding:

They also told us they were surprised at how un-cancery and purely fun the wedding was.

We initially thought this meant that cancer was not mentioned at the event, but she invited her oncologist and toasted him and his wife (who designed Erin’s gown) at the rehearsal dinner. So we’re left wondering: what does this mean? Did the ring bearer not have a tumor? Did the reception fail to metastatize? Maybe the best man’s speech didn’t involve her latest white blood cell counts.

Finally, on the honeymoon (which we hope was also “un-cancery”), a Glamour reader recognizes Erin:

It was pretty cool to be spotted. (I felt like a cancer-lebrity!)

Cancer-lebrity! Being known for having cancer can’t possibly be a good thing. We’d rather be anonymous and cancer-free, thank you.

Also, we’d rather Glamour wasn’t in the habit of making up words when appropriate ones already exist, but that’s probably just wish-y thinking. We don’t want to be un-realistic-y.

Wait, There's More?

After the photos in W, we were done with Tom Ford.  Finished. 

And then we ran across the feature on him in November’s Bazaar.  Now we’re really finished.

(And that article in Allure?  We just skipped right over it.  We may actually rip the pages out of the damn magazine.)

Here, from Bazaar’s “The Beauty of Being Tom Ford,” is what appalled us so:

“When Richard [his partner] and I are out riding in Santa Fe,”--where they have a ranch--”we often go for maybe three days without washing,” he confides.  “I like the odor of a man...”

Hey, Tom?  We’re not public relations experts or anything, but when you’re trying to sell yourself as a guru of grooming and you’re launching a line of high-end beauty products, perhaps you shouldn’t advertise the fact that you don’t bathe on a daily basis.

On second thought, perhaps you shouldn't talk about your grooming habits no matter what the circumstances.  We just don't want to know.

Why Designers Don't Usually Appear in Fashion Spreads

Tom Ford dancing with a bare-breasted woman.  Tom Ford making out with mannequins.  Tom Ford doing god-knows-what to the fake-baked, platinum-haired guys in the photo shown here.  It's all in the November issue of W.   

The designer then poses nude, proving his claim that his butt is “naturally hairless.”  The magazine touts him as “the man for whom sex and style are virtually synonymous.”  Sorry, Tom, but if the creepy photos in this spread are supposed to be indicative of sex and/or style, we’ll take a life utterly devoid of both.

Glossed Over v. Plum Sykes, Continued

In the October issue of Vogue, Plum lays bare the details of her nuptials, including tidbits from her personal journal.  First, she shares a concern about her Alexander McQueen dress.  (And when we say Alexander McQueen, we don’t mean the brand.  We mean him.)

It was going to be $15,000 for the embroidery alone.  I’m a writer, not an Arab princess. 

We love that she refers to herself as a writer IN HER OWN JOURNAL, like she has to remind--or convince--herself that writing is her profession.  (On second thought, we often have to remind ourselves that she is a writer, so perhaps this isn’t so much of a stretch.)

But we’re baffled by her complaint about the expense.  At what point did she think that having a dress created expressly for her by a top fashion designer would be inexpensive or even affordable?   If she was so worried about the expense, why not hit up Bergdorf or Saks or Bloomingdale’s?  As writer Marina Rust dutifully lists Plum’s honeymoon wardrobe--featuring pieces from Sonia Rykiel, Alice Temperley, and Zac Posen--it becomes clear that this woman, through whatever means, can afford pricy clothing.  Her complaints about the cost of the wedding gown--the one item for which most women will gladly splurge--come off almost petty.

Then Plum refers to a hair clip she plans to wear as “sort of weird and edgy, but so am I.”  We don’t know Plum personally, of course, but we’d wager serious cash--say, $15,000--that Plum isn’t even the edgiest woman in her apartment building.

Finally, Plum offers this gem about marriage:

Wardrobe is entertainment in a marriage.  ‘Darling, do you love this outfit?’  ‘Yes, darling, I do.’  It cheers him up, and he’s not cheery.

Well.  We knew her fiancé was "very keen" about her honeymoon set, but this takes his appreciation of her clothing to a whole new level.  Is any man so delighted by his wife’s wardrobe as this man seems to be?  Really.  That’s a serious question.  Most men are largely indifferent to women’s clothes, so Plum’s intended seems a bit, um, unusual.  Maybe he’s lying about his delight in her sartorial splendor.  Perhaps she’s exaggerating.  In any case, if constant wardrobe changes are going to constitute the “entertainment” in their marriage, we have only one more thing to say:

Good luck, Mr. Plum Sykes.  We’re quite certain you’re going to need it.

A Fruit by Any Other Name

We’re not entirely sure why, but we don’t like Plum Sykes.  We don't know if it’s her name--that can’t be real, can it?  Maybe it was the report that she has her own oversized mail bin at Vogue headquarters.  Perhaps it’s just that she lives in a world we don’t understand.

Whatever the case, our dislike for her was solidified by "The $900 Bra" in the July 2005 issue of Vogue, wherein she goes shopping for suitable wedding-night lingerie. 

In Paris.

Yes, this is definitely not our world.

At one point, after shopping all day for a set--Madame Cadolle, the proprietor of a shop on the Rue Cambon, insists she needs a nightgown with matching robe for "the first night!"--Sykes discusses the matter with her fiancé over dinner. 

"What do you think, darling, about me appearing on our wedding night wearing a set?" I ask him.

He says he does not know what a set is.  I explain.

"Obviously I am very keen," he says.  Then we talk about something else.

It’s difficult to imagine having sex at all--let alone the "million times" she claims--with a man who says things like "Obviously I am very keen," but we digress.

Our case was bolstered when we saw this article from USA Today, in which Sykes opines, "It's not very cool to be wearing $10,000 every time you leave the house.  The chicest woman is the woman who looks really sexy in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt."  Or, apparently, $1000 of French lingerie.

Sykes is a phony!  Or a liar.  Maybe she was just pandering to Bergdorf Blondes' target audience.  We don't know which is worse.

We're not sure what your game is, Sykes.  But we just can't buy it.  No pun intended.