I usually bring something to read while I’m waiting at the salon where I get my hair cut, rather than subject myself to the stack of glitz and glamour rags, but this time, I forgot. So, what the hell, let’s take a look at what the other ninety percent of the world is reading.
I scanned the glossies, each thick with ads and photo spreads of the young and ultra-thin and beautiful (and pretentious, disinterested, and vapid, as long as I’m judging), and each weighing in at a couple hundred pages, which makes my usual reads like The New Yorker and The Atlantic look anorexic in comparison.
And then I saw it… Vogue.
A whopper. 606 pages, and that’s just for March. It would be like the sumo wrestler of the magazine world, except they would probably never print a photo of someone so not thin.
I picked it up. It had the density of a shot put. The thing was thicker than a telephone book.
Well then, let’s check out the articles.
I flipped through. Where the hell was the table of contents?
Ads. More ads. Ads for clothing. Ads for makeup. Ads for fragrance. Ads for hair stuff. Ads for I don’t even know what the product is, but the models are young and ultra-thin and beautiful in a pretentious, disinterested, and vapid kind of way.
Ah, finally. The table of contents is tucked back on page 100. And it says the first article is not until page 399.
You read it right—page three hundred and ninety fucking nine.
I flipped through to find it. You may not care what it was about, but I must report that this blog, which is not yet done, is already longer than that article. Why should we read when there are pictures of the young and ultra-thin and beautiful, etc. etc.
I checked with my stylist, and yes, there is a new issue every month. That comes to about 7,200 pages a year. Most of the literary journals I read probably haven’t printed 7,200 pages in their existence.
How I’ve fooled myself for so many years. This—Vogue—is the state of literature in the United States. I’ve wasted a good half decade trying to write for publications that hardly anyone reads. Damn it, I’m tired of the obscurity of literary journals. Is it too late for me to be in vogue? I could lose weight. I could dye away the gray. Trust me, I have no problem looking disinterested. With a little practice, maybe I could be pretentious… possibly vapid…