After an unheard of two-magazine-long mid-day naptime, I can with the utmost confidence assert that you will run into trouble if you try to apply the same criterion to models in these two magazines. My criterion being, Is this photo interesting for any other reason than just a pretty, well-lit tush? With the yoga models I go, Hey, nice tush, and by the way, how does she do that? or perhaps even, Does she do that when she's having sex? With the fashion models I think, You are doing nothing but projecting a haughty, gnawing disdain for nourishment, and you have the warmth of a 5-watt bulb. Yoga Journal has a new editor whose brother is both a cop and soldier, so she took pains to print interviews a woman who teaches yoga on a military base as well as an American soldier in Iraq who does yoga because he got freaked by his own violence. It was a great big magazinal effort to make the point that Doing Yoga does not equal Being A Liberal Peacenik Stooge. I mean, I had no idea! No more conforming with the hairy-legged crowd at the Nader rallies for me, it's a straight libertarian ticket from here on in. Also, I plan to buy a Hummer with a bumper sticker that says, "I love animals. They're delicious."
But anyway, the thing that W is really pushing this month is Kate Moss: The Triumphant Return of a Superstar. Wha-- huh? Superstar? Superstar What? Superstar Boobless Chick who dated Johnny Depp? I mean, right on for that, and the Chuck Close daguerrotypes were amazing, but it doesn't qualify her for superstar status in my gilt-edged, leather-bound book of People Who Knock Me Out. If she, say, put out a record as good as Live Through This without falling into a huge black hole (heh heh, get it?) of narcissism afterward, got nominated for an Academy Award for Best Short Subject 
(doesn't even have to win, nominated is great), and wrote a comic (i.e., actually funny) novel about a lowly London waif who makes good without hurting anybody's feelings, and did it all wearing nothing but Christian Lacroix couture panties, I'd be first in line to kiss her outstretched, beautifully polished pinkie toe. But she needs to do all those things first. To be a superstar. To me. And even then I probably wouldn't actually kiss her toe, I might just kind of graze it with my upper lip, and then I'd go wax off my mustache hair and press it in my special album.
I rarely think about posting something while I'm experiencing it, but Hey! Parking Lot Blowjob Man! Dude, I saw you cruising through Macy's at lunchtime the other day. One look at those shoes and I knew it was you. What are you, Roumanian or something? Nothing against Roumanians, my sister-in-law married (and divorced) a Roumanian and he was one charming motherfucker, even as they drove through Polish police checkpoints, at night, in the winter, in some crap Roumanian car, to bring his mother a Christmas present of several jugs of cooking oil. But whatever about that -- who's your partner there with the severely eighties bleached mushroom hair and the bright yellow vest-and-slacks outfit? You guys must be the toast of Bucharest. No wonder homeless girls fling themselves at you. Good luck on that threesome with the retarded girl who sweeps up at Salvation Army that you're trying to set up for later. You guys rock.
