Your new novel, “Bergdorf Blondes,” have created some disgraceful and unintentionally hilarious Q&A sessions which demonstrate that you are a Tina Brown in the making.
I have a new disease, which I’ve called glitteratitis. I want Bret Easton Ellis to use me as an object in his next novel, preferably as a footstool.
As a writer for Vogue, you have ideas, right?
I’m too beautiful to be concerned about the human condition.
You’ve used “blonde” as a verb and every time you open your mouth, people have been actually lost brain cells listening to you.
You’ve got to keep the English language fun. Have you ever known an English teacher aware of this season’s fashion designs? I haven’t. Perhaps if these teachers paid attention to the way they dressed, English classes wouldn’t be so square.
How can you justify writing a book about these kinds of women with all that is going on the world?
After 9/11, I finally had the excuse I needed to open up my secret stash of candy. And I thought to myself that Jonathan Franzen needed to write a history of candy rather than these long novels about human behavior. He made my head hurt. Who really wants to pay attention to that sort of thing? This age is about comfort and self-entitlement. If you look at this lady with the cigarette in her mouth, she’s simply not in fashion. And besides, we have cheerier photos at Vogue.
What did you study at Oxford?
I wrote my thesis on the frizzy hair movement of the 1970s, drawing particular attention to the Farrah Fawcett feathering movement. It was well received.
P.T. Barnum once said, “Never underestimate the stupidity of the American public.” Would you say that you could apply this to being born in London?
How brilliant. Can you pick up lunch?
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
And the irrational hatred grows further and further…
Many attempt it, but no one can replace Tina Brown. Not even Tina can replace Tina.
Irrational hatred? I don’t hate my targets. I just mock them.
Thorough and incisive as usual, Ed. I had a few follow-up questions about her pubic hair, though. Guess I’ll have to wait for the movie.
So when does that Sarah Jessica Parker novel hit the streets?
Also, her elbow weirds me out. To be specific: It looks like there is a frowning pair of lips at the back of her elbow. Or maybe her elbow is grimacing, not content to be called literature of any kind? I’m not sure what kind of expression her elbow is attempting — maybe it’s simply trying to get out of frame — but it’s disconcerting.
If this comment is overly shallow, I comfort myself that I remain a rather deep pool in comparison to its subject.
Damn you, Carrie, now I’m going to dream of elbows tonight…
Ya know, if you grafted some T&A onto this Sykes fella, he’d make an attractive woman.