Ah! It is travel time at the June issue of
Vogue. There is luggage packed and unpacked throughout the issue. I check the masthead---Nope,
Miss Anna Wintour is still before the Mast. How many long, aching years has it been?
Richard Henry Dana had it easy,
Two Years Before the Mast and he only got lashed, what was it? Three times? Well, ahoy there sailor boys! Wait, we’ll visit
André, the loveable Giant later. For now, we’ll walk the dock with
Miss Anna Wintour and her flock of Dive Bombing Seagulls.
Miss Anna Wintour has been giving parties, lately. Well, she sponsors them as a co-host. And that means that she shows up at the party to sit at the best-located table and drink the best champagne and use the best stall in the bathroom. And the lower orders may say that they partied with her. Not like the old days, Hey
Miss Anna Wintour? You actually got down back then when you had your original hips and knees and skin. But when you use things too much, they wear out. That is nature---evil, evil nature at work.
What is the result of
Miss Anna Wintour’s partying?
Miss Salma Hayek Canoe is featured on the cover and in the magazine. And why is that, we wonder? Didn’t
Miss Salma Hayek Canoe have a little difference with
Miss Anna Wintour at one of those parties at the Met? Didn’t she flounce out or not appear in her ruffles at the La Dolce Vita and GrabbAnna Tableaux of Stars? Has all been forgiven? No,
Miss Salma Hayek Canoe, you have flouted
Miss Anna Wintour and you will pay with your dignity for that---just ask
André the Molted Giant about that, but later.
First
Miss Anna Wintour puts
Miss Salma HaveACanoe on the cover and whites out everything but the horse behind
Miss Salma HijackACanoe. Remember Catherine the Great and her Stallion? Good, the subliminal messages are working.
Miss Salma Hayek Canoe’s beautiful face and figure are lost in the fog and the blur of airbrushing on the cover and in her article, which is all about serial killers. And then the pictorial coup de couteau à you bitch (merci,
Miss Kimora Lee) is given.
Miss Salma Hayek Hammock is shown in a picture with
Miss Penelope Cruz (who has the advantage of the light and the shot and proper optometry care) with her eyes crossed and closed. And then,
Miss Anna Wintour graciously twists the shiv in
Miss Salma HiThereJack’s eye---like that movie by Salvador Dali---and says of the Abu Ghiraib’d
Miss Salma Hayek: “I’ve never been to Salma’s home, but I am sure that it is unmistakably her”:---bloody and bowed before my might and anger!
Mr. André Leon Talley wants “magic! Yes, yes, magic”. Yes, André, I too want
Miss Diane Vreeland resurrected from the grave and made Queen of
Vogue once again! Let us both run away to Haiti and make it happen! You supply the “the fashion bells and alarms” from your head and I’ll kill the chickens. We can bring back the Glory Days or the Gorey Days. Just a little blood and some pins and some artfully arranged fabric stuffed with cotton, and we can make it so!
And what of André’s diet? Well, “For a full week this spring, I gave up my nightly diet of
Hardball with
Chris Matthews…”. Was it worth it, André? If you are going to cheat on your diet, André, please do it with something decadently worthwhile and chocolate. Not with dried out white meat gristle like Chris.
Perhaps André realizes this, for at the end of his column, he suddenly bursts out with: “She is a woman with a caramelized glaze, like the surface of a crème brûlée: Tap it a little too forcefully and it will crack.” Dammit, Yesssss! You are my Man, André! You and me, André! In the kitchen after midnight, I’ll fry that chicken we killed and we’ll whack crème brûlée till it cracks like
Miss Anna Wintour’s face and knees!
Miss Katherine Mosby gets paid good money by
Vogue to write drivel like this: “Glamour was, however, spoken fluently by the women in my family. It was through luggage that I finally came to terms with fashion.” What? Glamour (sic) is a language and luggage is a language? Well tan my hide and call it leather! Pack it up, Miss Mosby, and go away to Mars.
The
Vogue Girl of the Moment is Dr. Samantha Boardman who is “a graduate of Cornell’s medical college and a practicing psychiatrist.” Let’s belittle a woman into a girl. Make the old cow, veal.
The Manners Editor decides to remind
Miss Anna Wintour of her guestly duties when she parties.
“What do you do if your hosts go to war with each other?” Well, I watch---it’s called dinner and entertainment.
“If you come down to breakfast on Sunday morning and see your hosts, or guests, splashed across the newspapers accused of some transgression…”. I act like I just have to call my mother, take a phone photo and send it to
CPMCofG. Then I check
Hunt that Bounty to see what the reward on my host or guest is. Then I grill the host/guest for their side of the story because it should be told. And I will tell it.
“Models eat.” Yes, that is a real sentence in the magazine. They don’t even try to gussy up their lies anymore.
Brigette Romanek:
“I make crocodile clutches….All of the meat goes to developing nations, so there is no waste.” Oh, we are not going to discuss the wasteland between your ears? Crocodiles feed the starving millions, when will they get the respect for it? Where is the crocodiles' share of your profits?
Jane Mayle goes to the HimILayHims. She almost got there before
Vogue packed her up and took her
“when I was to have formed part of a yak caravan with a man in pursuit of tea.” What is “a yak caravan”? Well turn a few pages and there is a picture of a yak caravan which is a bunch of models with dead raccoons on their heads and severed foxtails hanging around their necks. The models bunch together in groups and rent SUVs and run over and murder small animals which they then braid into their hair and sulk in the Himalayas. Models don’t eat the animals’ meat.
Then a pair of someones named Dander and Anaconda go to Spain and dang if they don’t take Spanish pictures just like
Miss Salma Hayek Comatose’s. But you can actually see Dandruff and Acondominium in their Spanish pictures.
