malcontent.

so i just finished reading a few articles in the latest vogue and have come to the conclusion that i am a better writer than the broads they solicit to contribute soulless editorials and almost-funny features. the cover stories are generally pretty bland; usually little more than people magazine-type gushing laced w/detailed accounts of wardrobe, menu, and makeup choices. i feel like matt damon's character in good will hunting, when he goes off on the supposed brilliant minds in the field of physics - "do you know how easy this is?I this is a fucking joke." (slightly paraphrased, i'm sure.) but seriously... i mean, i know i don't know enough about fashion or society to write for a magazine like vogue, and i know it's not like i'm a published writer or anything... but there is very little writing out there that blows my mind - and we won't even get into female writers, who have gone past good and back to bad again (excepting joan didion).

anyway, i was so bored by vogue that i actually took to creating this little blog just to gripe about it. perhaps it is too much to ask that my fashion magazine of choice actually feature intriguing, sharp writing that doesn't sacrifice wit for readability. perhaps i am too much a cynic/skeptic and demand too much sarcasm and snideness in what i read before bed (might be time to get some more bukowski...) or perhaps it's time for me to just do something about it and write something that i actually would want to read. i think all scenarios are true, and in the spirit of practicing what i preach, i am going to start writing.

(btw, as i type, i am lounging in my p.e. shorts from junior high, designer unknown, and two plain white wifebeaters (hanes). a tattered, hideously printed sateen scarf is wrapped around my head, and my skin is almost greasy from a liberal application of cetaphil moisterizer.)