Oh, I love Vogue and its flashy, flaunting of fashion, its articles lauding vacuous socialites, "it-girl" actresses and the occasional over-40 writer/power moguls, and pages of outerspace-priced clothing on willowy martian-looking mannekins (who we all know now on a first name basis). Really, I love it! Okay, well, it is a bit in love with itself and its authority on fashion, but really ladies, fashion won't save the world, no matter how many charity balls you cover. It's hard to get as worked up over a (last season) pair of ostrich shoes or clutch purse, and enter a mosh pit at some Barney's outlet sale at your "insider's" behest. It really could whip some impressionable young people into a froth of rampant materialism! Makes one wonder if those bound-in perfume samples are starting to smell like "advertorial!"
Vogue does have its merits, including great photography, the occasional thought-provoking article by a guest writer, and bits on designers lurking on the fringes of affordability. Still, it's a fun bit of eye-candy and fantasy/vicarious luxury living each month. Yes, I do have a subscription, but I read it with a boulder of salt lodged firmly in my cheek.