Red Light, Green Light
The Tinsley Mortimer and Olivia Palermo of newsletters is sugared up and tapped out. Run us a bath, would you?
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Sebastian Spreadstans,
We would like to give proper kudos to Vogue for finding new and different ways to make us feel bad about our lives. Some traditions never die! This time around it’s not about the bone structure we didn’t inherit, the couture we’ll never afford, or the nips and tucks we’re too chickenshit to attempt—it’s the fact that here in the winter of our discontent, we are simply not partying hard enough, see? Close readers will recall that a couple weeks back we tagged Ellen Cushing’s Atlantic story, which made the case that the best way to solve the “loneliness epidemic” (which by the way the Atlantic also argues is not an epidemic at all) is to throw more parties. Specifically, two per year. Your Spreaditors felt a little smug that day, since we have already put this policy into effect in our own homes. But then British Vogue had to come along and puncture our mylar balloon: Partying, writes Daisy Jones—not the Taylor Jenkins Reid character but also maybe, yes, exactly that character—is an essential form of self-care. She’s not talking about hosting 10 adults for pot gummies and a rousing game of Taboo. She’s talking about “proper fun. The sort of fun that makes you forget about your microbiome and sleep-app goals.” Folks, this woman is dancing till 4 a.m. And you know what? Well…our feet hurt for her.
Bring on the epsom salts,
Rachel & Maggie
P.S. Speaking of partying, what are you doing tomorrow night? We’ll be livestreaming FireAid, the dual concert with 27 music stars—Olivia Rodrigo to Joni Mitchell—to raise funds for victims of the L.A. wildfires. Find out more here.




Baby, she was born this way.
We would like to congratulate Elle for getting flat-out weird with their new Lady Gaga cover shoot. Go ahead, feast your eyes on a smattering of our favorite balls-to-the-wall photos from the series, by Gray Sorrenti.
The Beautiful and the Damning
In New York Magazine’s new cover experiment, Brock Colyar embeds with the new Republican establishment—blonde, hard-partying, rich, and unapologetically harsh in their right-wing views and offensive “humor.” Taking on this assignment was a bold move for Colyar, who has written beautifully about their gender identity in the past, and who is referred to by their subjects while reporting this story as “a queer. But a friendly one” and “not ‘normal gay.’” Still, Colyar approaches these Trump lovers with the same open-hearted fearlessness as the denizens of any other scene they’ve covered. The result is entertaining, heartbreaking, and terrifying in one fell swoop. Also: While we’re here talking about New York covers, we did—as promised—get around to reading the Neil Gaiman exposé from the last print issue. Our gut reaction was that this one was excessively graphic—to the point of being gratuitous—in its lingering over detailed allegations of sexual crimes. We didn’t think it served the reader, or the victims, or…anyone, really? We’d love to hear your thoughts.
Read “The Cruel Kids Table” here.
It ain’t easy doing “women’s work.”
Over the weekend, we grabbed at Caity Weaver’s New York Times Magazine swan song about consigning herself to a high-end Austrian “medical health resort” to kick a heavy-duty sugar-eating habit like it was a fresh box of Entenmann’s—only to lose a certain amount of gusto early on, when we learned her drug of choice is “overpoweringly red, rubber-soft chewy fructose corn syrupy solids.” Specifically, Strawberry Sensation Fruit Roll-Ups with Tongue Tattoos on Every Roll. Sorry, Caity—you’re a hilarious writer but no thanks! Predictably, when the story hit the chat at
’s Burnt Toast, though, it wasn’t weapons-grade sucrose that was the problem. Yesterday, Sole-Smith devoted her column to the issue, declaring that Weaver’s story—further proof of “the institutional anti-fatness of the New York Times”—breaks two rules of “the rudimentary ‘don’t give people eating disorders’ code of ethics we tried to uphold back in my women’s magazine days”: Rule number 1, “Never describe disordered eating behaviors with any specificity.” Rule number 2, “Don’t include specific weights or other triggering numbers.” Nobody loves to invoke the women’s-mag code more than we do, but we’re not totally sold: Annoying as it is that, despite all that sugar, Weaver weighs in at 130 lbs and is seemingly healthy—well, isn’t her specific weight a relevant fact? (Would you have been satisfied if she just said, “I’m thin”? We wouldn’t.) And is it really “healthist,” as some Sole-Smith readers remarked, to say that consuming heavy doses of refined sugar is not all that good for your health? This, too, seems like objective fact. Still, we agree that it’s a little perplexing that in all 8,000 words, Weaver never touched on whether “sugar addiction” is even a thing. Nor did she say how much she (or, presumably, the Times) paid for her to spend a week at the spa—or acknowledge the ridiculous privilege therein. And yeah, a “sensitivity read” by an editor with some working knowledge of eating disorders and body positivity would have been prudent. Regardless, the story continues to bolster our theory that the New York Times Magazine is among the best women’s magazines in the business today (spoiler alert: check your inboxes for more on this theory, this coming Friday), putting serious column inches into the kind of subject matter that usually only makes the glossiest glossies.Read “How My Trip to Quit Sugar Became a Journey Into Hell” here.
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