I mean, really, it wouldn't have been very different from what Portfolio would have put out anyway, right? If Vanity Fair had just been a little less selfish the whole thing could have turned out very differently.
[Graphic Artist: Todd Grantham]
Monday, May 4, 2009
3
JL: Graydon?
GC: Yes, Joanne
JL: How much for the leetle girls.
GC: Excuse me?
JL: The leetle girls, I want to buy them for my cover.
GC: Go away.
JL: How about a movie star.
GC: Did you hear me? I said get out.
JL: Not until you give me a star.
GC: I'm not giving you any stars. Stars are mine.
JL: But what about the band?
GC: Listen, forget about the band. Those days are over. You're over. We're over.
JL: If you don't give me one star, every month, I'm going to come in here everyday and just start bossing people around.
GC: You can't do that!
JL: Just watch me.
GC: Listen, if I give you a star, I could loose my job. Si pays me big money to keep them in line.
JL: And they'll stay in line! I promise!
GC: I don't trust you.
JL: So you don't think I'll come in here every day and get all arbitrary and shouty with with staff.
GC: Well, actually...
JL: See! You do trust me.
GC: Ok, I give up. Who do you want.
JL: Clooney.
GC: Ok, that's it. Get the fuck out of here, right this minute!
(And shortly thereafter, Portfolio folded)
I love the headline for this: "You call this fat?"
Um, actually *you* call this fat. Like, 10 times one one page.
I can't believe there's not been more outrage on feminist blogs about Rich Cohen's smug little hatchet job. I know Jessica Simpson is part of the Celebrity Industrial Complex and all so we're technically all supposed to have giddy little bath in her so-called misfortunes, but holy shit - how anyone could put their name to this is beyond me.
That a grown-ass, 41-year-old man spewed this much barely cloaked bile at a 28-year-old woman, and a 60-year-old man found fit to print in mass quantity it is kind of sickening - at best, it's some sort of hail-mary bid at relevancy from Conde Nast; at worst it's just fucking irresponsible.
The gall of such a flabby publication spending so many column inches on a barely-relevant singer's 20 pound fluctuation.
Really, Balk, you make a good point. It shoulda been you, Vanity Fair.
This is why I've not bought a magazine since the internet came along.
Porn, too.