Who Slept With Eustace Vanilley?

Because there's no other explanation for Nancy Franklin's latest New Yorker piece. There are some worlds that should simply never collide. Bush and MENSA. Balloon animals and porcupines. Brussel sprouts and Mrs. Fields. But, sometimes, life's cosmic wires get crossed and we're left with something as unnatural as this week's article on The Hills, specifically Lauren Conrad in all her highlighted, over-plucked, shimmering glory. It's a wonder the pages didn't spontaneously burst into flames right there on the L train.

Is this what our future holds?

How The Hills (which, in the interest of full disclosure, is a guilty pleasure of mine) has gained the legitimacy of respected media outlets is beyond my comprehension. As a slightly-closeted lover of the show, I can appreciate the salacious glee in its voyeuristic, vicarious thrills and everything else your old Film Studies professor would have you believe. However, I am also a slightly-closeted New Yorker fanatic and can't help but wonder whether The Hills has been catapulted from the pop culture minor leagues into what can only be described as the rarefied annals of mainstream media. I guess, on some level, I should rejoice at the prospect of one-stop-shopping and dig into the article like a 16 year old snatching Mom's car keys.

Instead, I'm getting the feeling that LC and her cohorts are actually just diluting the rest of our already-laughable attempt at elevating the country's journalistic efforts. Between the upcoming mud-slinging election coverage and our collective obsession with celebrities' breakfast habits, this newest piece is just another harbinger of the next tabloid rag to hit the stands.

Perhaps we already predicted the beginning of the end months ago.

[Eustace Vanilley]