I'll stick to the pretty pictures, thanks.

So, last night on the train I set myself to a new challenge. Trying to groom myself culturally, I have recently been making a sincere effort to buy magazines other than Cosmo and similar flippant sex rags which espouse twenty-first century female mania. For a more exhaustive, and hilarious, examination on why people shouldn't read these magazines, please see Jezebel's astute collection of observations. By the way, this has not deterred me from still wanting to pick the publication up from time to time. Sometimes we all need a little literary narcotic. OK? However, at the train station, perusing down the news aisles, I just didn't feel ready or smart enough for something as heavy as Newsweek or The New Yorker. Say what you will, I just don't find the "Talk of the Town" anything to write home about. Also, considering that the phenomena upon which I form my most cultivated opinions are VH1 and Project Runway (Gah! I'm so lazy. My hearty oped on Christian Siriano to come later - for now just read the musings of the authority slash God: Tim Gunn), I just didn't feel up to the mental challenge of indulging in the woes of America's intelligentsia. Therefore, I decided to go for the next best thing: I would pick up the mammoth issue of Vogue (for Anna Wintour's monthly love letter to the FAH-bulous does in fact include very astute diatribes) and encourage myself to read it cover-to-cover. Not a small feat, considering page count the cover boasts. This meant turning each page, and actually reading the articles, rather than just looking at the glossy pictures accompanying and then drooling over the Marc Jacobs double-page spread on the next page. Reading the articles actually shouldn't be considered so trying, especially because 80% of the magazine consists of advertisements and pompous photographs of people you wish you were. However, the treatises contained within typically profile a larger social issue or something about a foreign film or indie flick no one's going to see, because it's completely stupid, until it makes it big at Sundance. Therefore, it did command some sort of opinionated effort on my part. Touché.

One thing I was excited about was the fact that Drew Barrymore was the feature article. So, I decided to cheat a little bit and head straight to the piece (that's what she said). Now, I'm a huge Drew fan. Say what you will, but I've always loved her, even when she feigned that inane adolescent girl-crush on her Charlie's Angels costars, and even when she stumbled through that five-month hot mess of a marriage with Tom Green ("This is the Tom Green Show; it's not the Green Tom Show...." sorry, had to reminisce). And even when she gushes about the horrid childhood that saw her drinking at nine and doing yay at twelve - AH-GAIN. (Please Drew; considering my family woes I WISH I could go back in time and encourage my 9-year-old self to take a stiff one). Whatever. Drew Barrymore = the shit. But as I progressed through this article, the more and more I wanted to stop using Vogue as a travel companion and more as a surface upon which to vom. When did feature articles stop being portraits of celebrities and start being sickeningly infatuated propaganda? Julia Reed's œuvre on Barrymore is positive dribble. DRIBBLE I SAY! I mean, I can recognize the fact that profiles of A-listers in glamorous publications - even profiles of the baser A-listers (I'm lookin at you - LiLo) - are supposed to be a little kiss-ass. But this garbage was simply nauseating. It details, in bleeding-heart compassion, the history of a regal but misguided "dynasty" of actors and performers, all weaving through Drew's meticulous explanation of everyone's need to "find their tribe," and the accounts of the astounding pains and sacrifices she made in converting herself to Edie Bouvier Beale for the upcoming Grey Gardens. Wait, Drew stopped using her blackberry for a month? What a martyr. Bring back the flower child that made peace signs on the red carpet. That may have been when I was eleven and I saw her at Nickelodeon kid's choice awards, and when she looked like a cross between a vampire and a hippie, but at least it was more credible and genuine than this charade. And the worst, most unbelievable moment of this dark horse is when Reed mentions an impromptu call she made to Barrymore, while Drew was out at lunch with her boyfriend, Justin Long. Here's Reed's account of what happens when she asks for Justin's opinion of Drew:

When she puts him on the phone, I meanly put him on the spot. 'Tell me one thing she brings to mind,' I demand, but he doesn't hesitate: 'Instant light. Beauty and light, and she shines it on everybody who comes into contact with her.'

I'm sorry, but I have a hard time believing the Mac guy would ever spew that sort of bullshit. I think I'd have a more sincere relationship with the Dell dude.