Flipping · 22 July 2001
Other than gathering crucial insight from InStyle, I’ve been avoiding the wailing wall of magazines for the past couple years, mostly because I can’t take the noise of it: all the piercing cover gazes, the lush chorus of advertising, the hollow eyes of anorexic children (unblinking, uncertain). Ten million articles aping two hack voices: ‘bend over’ or ‘preen.’
Nonetheless I was out avoiding my landlord this evening, killing time at the wailing wall, kind of enjoying the super-mook flabby jiggle of Details, FHM, Maxim, et al. – and the slightly higher nipple count of their UK counterparts – and I should have known that in this vulnerable position of smirking enjoyment, I risked coming upon something so utterly, blindingly terrible as the sight of Belinda Carlisle naked.
People. Learn from my mistake.
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