My darling, Dominic Dunne, does not grace the January issue of
Vanity Fair. Pout
(that's me, I'm pouting though perhaps my Mr. Dunne is pouting too. Obviously no one invited him out to lunch. Rich Bitches, Pfooi!)
Well, won't it be amusing when Leonardo DiCaprio's movie
Blood Diamonds gets nominated for a Golden Globes award. And it will be, because the Golden Globes just loves pretentious films about poor Africans getting skewered by the big bad capitalists who are not Hollywood Capitalists but Oil and Pharmaceutical Capitalists who use and abuse the plight of poor Africans to make money. Blood Diamonds for
Blood Diamonds. Yeah, that's like a metaphor or irony or something literary.
Hey, Golden Globes, here is a thought. Why not take all those $10,000 compacts and sell them and use the money to drill wells in drought-striken Africa or save some poor Africans in Dafur or buy some HIV medicine for HIV infected Africans or pay some teacher or build some schools. You can do all that cheap. And you don't have to buy or bring one of those cute Africans home and pretend to raise it as your child. Just some ideas on how to spend your money.
Graydon Carter is in a snit because New York City has banned smoking and now they have banned trans fats. I thought that Mr. Carter was bitterly joking and snarking from nicotine withdrawal, but I'll be damned.
It is true.. That shuts my mouth.
Karl Lagerfeld wears rings on his fingers and bells on
Dakota Fanning's toes. What is this obsession with Dakota Fanning's feet lately? It's not just me. Really, I am no podiarast. I am no Congressman Foley of the Underage Feet.
Miss Fanning is becoming the new Mary and Kate Ashen Olson twins, but all in one. You know where the one twin eats the other twin while they are both in the womb. And the U.S. Congress is trying to pass a law that would put the cannibal twin, afer birth, in a high security maximum prison or Gitmo, and the mom would be put in a vegetative state so that this would never be allowed to happen in her womb again!
And Christopher Hitchens, when you begin an article on
Why Women Aren't Funny with the following joke: You have proved conclusively that you do not know what funny is. Lay off the booze, Mr. Hitchens. You are losing your reasoning synapses.
And there is a guy whose yacht is stranded on the Key West tidal wave flats and he is living in it and hanging out there because he is a millionaire and he can.
And on page 161, our patron saint, Crown Princess Marie Chantal of Greece's husband, Drowned Prince Pavlos of Greece is hanging with Gwyntwit Paltwat and Elizabeth Hurley at a party in London where, as Miss Paltwat will tell you, you will have the most Intellectual Conversations about Cultured Cheese in the whole Wide World. Because the English know their cheese and the Americans just cut it.
Come back, Mr. Dunne. I miss you.
(that's me, I'm pouting though perhaps my Mr. Dunne is pouting too. Obviously no one invited him out to lunch. Rich Bitches, Pfooi!) 
