Dead to me

I don’t think it can be scientifically proven that each new edition of Vanity Fair is not in fact a copy of every Vanity Fair ever. Every single issue contains:

1. A celebrity interview for me to ignore. I already know more than I need to about Cher, thank you very much.

2. Disconnected ramblings from Graydon Carter, who has been dead to me since Spy magazine folded.

3. One good, well-researched article about an actual news topic: – the Bernie Madoff scandal, the real estate meltdown, Wikileaks, Goldman Sachs. Bethany McLean’s reporting on business and finance is excellent.

4. The obligatory story about the Kennedys. Jackie as a fashion icon. The real story behind the Bay of Pigs. Jackie’s childhood. Jackie’s career as an editor. This month it’s JFK’s inaugural: “The Bash that Launched Camelot!” By now they have to be scraping the bottom of this well-worn barrel. Next month, maybe . . . oh, I don’t know . . . “Camelot on a platter: Jackie’s state dinner menus”?

5. The inane “My Stuff” feature. I don’t think anyone on the planet needs to know which toothpaste Rihanna uses.

6. The obligatory one-page feature on a European socialite who recently launched her line of: 1. children’s clothing, 2. luxury spa products, or 3. gourmet cupcakes.

7. The obligatory feature on a 40-year-old “celebrity” crime, complete with black and white photos to convince us that the victims, defendants, or both were indeed famous in 1972. You’d think they’d stop now that Dominick Dunne is not only dead to me, but actually dead.

8. The obligatory feature on an actress whose career peaked in the ‘60s. Is there really anything more to say about Elizabeth Taylor, Angie Dickinson or Marilyn Monroe? Stop it.

9. A two-page jumble of tiny pictures of rich people at parties.

10. Something from Christopher Hitchens, which is generally worth reading.

Of course the cover is always graced by a celebrity. Approximately 30% of their covers feature Angelina Jolie, with 30% of the photo featuring her cleavage. This month’s issue arrived the other day, and on the cover is . . . hey, it’s not Angelina Jolie! It’s . . . Justin Bieber. Covered in lipstick smears. With the breathless promise of a full feature interview inside!

Vanity Fair, you are dead to me.