A Visit to Vanity Fair (October 2006)

Aha! My first-ever copy of Vanity Fair magazine, and I'm astonished that it cost a mere $4.50 at the grocery store when it is such a thick volume. Perhaps I should have looked at the pricing on the other magazines, for comparison. I have promised La Lady Lisa that I will buy a copy of this, her favorite magazine, and write about the experience.

The cover features George Clooney, one of the few actors I can recognize, thanks to his appearance in O Brother Where Art Thou? It is my very bad luck to discover Minnie Pearl winking at me from the upper right-hand corner ("How-DEE!"). How did I get stuck with a Grand Ol' Opry edition?? Is this a regular feature? No, probably not: the banner says "Country Music ** Spectacular**"… (sigh)

What else awaits? The cover tells me that, in addition to an article about Mr. Clooney, we are offered a soldier's-eye view on killings in Haditha, an excerpt from Erik Larson 's new book, an article on Truman Capote, something from Annie Liebovitz – a photo shoot of Demi Moore? – and the headline that makes me nauseous: Bush's Wild Mustang Slaughter.

Okay, so we open the magazine. "David Yurman" it says, but the photo is a naked blonde girl. Twice. Transgendered? Nice work, then! Very convincing.

Next page. Something "completely remastered" swirls past. It appears to waft like a fluorescent leaf on a wind that resembles the aurora borealis: an iPod nano.

Next page: two people in black & white, and they look like a young couple who have just had an argument. Probably one of them forgot to bring the color and the date is ruined. The words are "Calvin Klein collection" and an address. Either that is where they left the color, or that is where the color is missing.

Next page: four people, none of them happy, burdened with huge handbags. These bags are about the size of the diaper bag I used to carry when my kids were little. No wonder none of them are happy! Can you remember all the stuff that had to be loaded into one of those things? It could weigh a ton, and usually you still had to lug the child around as well. If these young people – three of them are female – are parents already, it looks as though the babies aren't sleeping through the night yet. If they are not yet parents, why on earth are they lugging these huge bags around?

Next page: perfume. Ick. Moving on.

Giorgio Armani. A good Italian name, and I have heard it often enough to know he designs clothing, such as the form-fitting suit the young man is wearing here. From the look on his face, there must be a corset underneath the suit, and he is having trouble breathing. His expression says, "Take the picture, dammit!" Two mysterious people are watching him from the facing page, hidden behind Armani sunglasses. Everyone's hair is slicked-back with enough goo that I would never want to touch it.

Armani is rich – he owns the next set of pages as well. Good Lord! Our blonde lady has removed her sunglasses and probably halved her entire body weight!! If she were a mannequin, she would be made out of wire. Her emaciated state completely overshadows the beauty of the two pieces of jewelry on the facing page. If we can look at and covet these sparkly crystals while that woman silently starves for someone else's standard of beauty, then we are as cold as those stones, and as deep as these pages.

Dior is next. He has stranded his model in the middle of the desert. I am reminded of Cinderella, awaiting a carriage that has not only reverted to pumpkin status, it has already been hollowed-out and carved for Halloween. This guy is in for a long wait. His expression tells me he is aware of this.

We skip over the diamond watch – there's already a woman looking at that. On the next page is the word "Fendi" and a woman in all black. I have no idea what Fendi refers to – the clothing, the purse (another large bag), or the woman. The ad assumes I know and tells me nothing. Looking at the woman, I notice that her eyes are barely open and deeply surrounded by more black. To me, she looks like a battered wife, and I would like to give her the number of the nearest Women's Shelter.

On the next page, the first black model appears… but they have turned her cobalt blue, and her eyes, like the previous model's, are blackened. She appears to be glaring with hostility at the relaxed blonde on the facing page. Perhaps this blonde is the one handing out black eyes? Turn the page -- quick!

Next, we can buy a car, and the sales pitch is a riff on hate language. SUVs are currently in disfavor: they are gas-guzzlers and hard to see around in traffic or parking lots. It is fashionable to hate these cars and those who own or drive them. In order to want the car advertised here, I have to embrace the hatred small-minded people have created from their envy, and then admit to my own underlying envy and accept all these specious rewordings of the descriptions. I am invited to find a way to buy the car I want in the face of every reason not to do so. Slick. It is a beautiful bit of rhetoric the way fecal artwork is a beautiful piece of shit.

The cheaper ads are next: one page per item. On one side, I have all the reasons I need to demand the right to max out my credit card on something nonessential and nonfunctional: I deserve to reward myself. I deserve an ugly ring. Or, I could buy the uncomfortable-looking watch on the next page.

And, with the turn of the page, I have at last reached the Table of Contents, twenty-eight pages in from the cover. I now know why this magazine was not as expensive as I'd anticipated.