There is nothing, really, as enjoyable as a silly story about silly people and their silly lives. Such monkeys! Why are we all so funny? (Spoiler: it’s because late-stage capitalism renders us with too little to worry about.) Thank the Lord for this very silly story in Vanity Fair about the extremely silly Sally Quinn. God bless us every one! Here are two sentences that made me roll about on the floor in delight.
1. “After the firestorm, she entered the concrete meditation labyrinth her husband had built for her on their country estate in St. Mary’s County, Maryland, to think.”
2. “After an astrologer told Sally that [her son] Quinn would benefit from yoga, she had lunch with New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd, who recommended her own teacher, Pary, whose students included David Gregory and Rahm Emanuel.”
Oh, the whole thing is a delight. I mean that. It’ll make you want to join the Peace Corps or take up arms on behalf of something radical or, more likely, to go off and spend some poor person’s day’s-worth-of-wages on gourmet small-batch ice cream. Who cares? What does it matter?