Reblogging Julia

A critical analysis of the public ramblings of the creature formerly known as Ms. Baugher, who provides a manic amount of content to parse.

Every little thing she does is tragic.

Talk to me (juliabaugher at gmail) Always held in strict confidence.

Jan 21, 2008 1:38am
An Open Letter to Graydon Carter. Dear Graydon, First, let’s just get this out of the way: I love your restaurant. I like the clubby atmosphere, I like that the maître d’ knows my name, I like how it makes me feel more important than other people when I go there, and yeah, I’m a fan of the $50 mac&cheese. I also love your editor’s letters. I like how, every single month for the past seven years, I can count on you to spend at least 8 ‘grafs (but sometimes up to 20!!) chastising, castigating, and generally castrating Bush. Keep on holding the torch, my Canadian butterfly, you only have 10 months left! Your photography is brilliant, your profiles are in depth, your continued paychecks to Anna Wintour’s beau’s daughter slightly questionable, but ultimately understandable. Darling Graydon, you are certainly a starmaker, no doubt. You throw a Vanity Fair Oscars party so exclusive, not even Rick & Kathy Hilton are invited!! The starlets and not-even-starlets who have posed in your Vanities page have gone on to Great Things, like Golden Globes nominations and Sundance gifting suites and occasionally a Coen brothers movie. Your covers are coveted, as they confer upon the chosen celeb the proper degree of gravitas and intellectual depth - a sexier New Yorker, a smarter Vogue, a more sultry Economist. Okay, maybe not quite the Economist. But stars feel classy on your cover, and you work that to your advantage. You have the pick of the A-list litter - nary a big-shot exists who would deign to turn VF down! You are the real life Mr. Big! So. What’s my issue? Oh, Graydon, sweet Graydon. It’s Shia. Yes. Shia le …lu .. la? Beff? LaBoof? LEBRAFF?? Hold on. Let me look at this month’s cover. Okay. It’s “LaBeouf.” Shia LaBeouf. Graydon, my pet, your pluck is admirable, but your efforts are wasted. No matter how many COVERS of your enormously influential magazine you give him, this fact remains: Women. Do. Not. Want. To. Throw. Their. Panties. At. Shia. LaBeouff. They just don’t. I’m sorry. He seems like a nice kid. But he’s just never going to be … George Clooney. Brad Pitt. Tom Cruise before we knew he was crazy. Even Tom Hanks is debatable. And so you can put him on the cover every six months or so, which is what you seem to be doing currently, until Annie Leibovitz runs out of film, but honestly? The entire of America still won’t have the foggiest idea who he is, or why they should learn to properly spell and pronounce either his first OR last name (not even so journalists can make hilarious headline puns like “Le Buff!”) They’ll just wrinkle their brow, make a mental note to go in for some new botox, and turn the page. Anyway, it’s simply the truth, and, as Bush knows, sometimes the truth’s not fun!! I hope you’re not mad. Meet you at Wav at 8 for tuna tartare? Love, hugs & platonic kisses! You know you love me. xoxo Julia — juliaallison Notwithstanding the arrogance of this whole sentiment (I don’t find him attractive, ergo no one does), let’s just revisit this tell-tale line: “I like that the maître d’ knows my name, I like how it makes me feel more important than other people when I go there….” And there you go.  She dines out at places to feel more important than other people.  That is JA, in her own words, and probably, most honest.  Better and more superior living through dining. Only in New York, kids.  Only in New York.

An Open Letter to Graydon Carter.

Dear Graydon,

First, let’s just get this out of the way: I love your restaurant. I like the clubby atmosphere, I like that the maître d’ knows my name, I like how it makes me feel more important than other people when I go there, and yeah, I’m a fan of the $50 mac&cheese.

I also love your editor’s letters. I like how, every single month for the past seven years, I can count on you to spend at least 8 ‘grafs (but sometimes up to 20!!) chastising, castigating, and generally castrating Bush. Keep on holding the torch, my Canadian butterfly, you only have 10 months left!

Your photography is brilliant, your profiles are in depth, your continued paychecks to Anna Wintour’s beau’s daughter slightly questionable, but ultimately understandable.

Darling Graydon, you are certainly a starmaker, no doubt. You throw a Vanity Fair Oscars party so exclusive, not even Rick & Kathy Hilton are invited!! The starlets and not-even-starlets who have posed in your Vanities page have gone on to Great Things, like Golden Globes nominations and Sundance gifting suites and occasionally a Coen brothers movie.

Your covers are coveted, as they confer upon the chosen celeb the proper degree of gravitas and intellectual depth - a sexier New Yorker, a smarter Vogue, a more sultry Economist. Okay, maybe not quite the Economist. But stars feel classy on your cover, and you work that to your advantage. You have the pick of the A-list litter - nary a big-shot exists who would deign to turn VF down! You are the real life Mr. Big!

So. What’s my issue? Oh, Graydon, sweet Graydon. It’s Shia. Yes. Shia le …lu .. la? Beff? LaBoof? LEBRAFF?? Hold on. Let me look at this month’s cover. Okay. It’s “LaBeouf.”

Shia LaBeouf.

Graydon, my pet, your pluck is admirable, but your efforts are wasted. No matter how many COVERS of your enormously influential magazine you give him, this fact remains:

Women. Do. Not. Want. To. Throw. Their. Panties. At. Shia. LaBeouff.

They just don’t. I’m sorry. He seems like a nice kid. But he’s just never going to be … George Clooney. Brad Pitt. Tom Cruise before we knew he was crazy. Even Tom Hanks is debatable.

And so you can put him on the cover every six months or so, which is what you seem to be doing currently, until Annie Leibovitz runs out of film, but honestly?

The entire of America still won’t have the foggiest idea who he is, or why they should learn to properly spell and pronounce either his first OR last name (not even so journalists can make hilarious headline puns like “Le Buff!”) They’ll just wrinkle their brow, make a mental note to go in for some new botox, and turn the page.

Anyway, it’s simply the truth, and, as Bush knows, sometimes the truth’s not fun!! I hope you’re not mad. Meet you at Wav at 8 for tuna tartare?

Love, hugs & platonic kisses!

You know you love me.

xoxo

Julia

— juliaallison

Notwithstanding the arrogance of this whole sentiment (I don’t find him attractive, ergo no one does), let’s just revisit this tell-tale line:

“I like that the maître d’ knows my name, I like how it makes me feel more important than other people when I go there….”

And there you go.  She dines out at places to feel more important than other people.  That is JA, in her own words, and probably, most honest.  Better and more superior living through dining.

Only in New York, kids.  Only in New York.
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