The Glittery Inanity of the Best-Dressed List
Times fashion writer Eric Wilson originally sparked our ire when, at the end of the transit strike, he let his asshole write a piece on how New Yorkers dressed crappily for their 63-block hikes to work in the freezing cold. This week, however, we'll put our hate on hold, as he's behind an article looking at the season's unending, PR-infused crop of Best-Dressed lists. The lists have become so predictable and beige that they've virtually lost all meaning, thus prompting Vanity Fair to hold off on publishing its 2006 list until it can "regain an element of surprise."
Fair enough — but who, exactly, would be a surprise to see on these things? It's the same parade of spiky breastplates on every red carpet, and you either look good or you don't. Putting together a roster for Vogue or Vanity Fair isn't rocket science, and there's hardly room for a shocker. Unless, of course, former Observer staffer Jessica Joffe didn't make a list. Then we'd be fucking flabbergasted.
