I sort of think that if your life is SO FRANTIC that you can’t pencil in a couple of hours to appear ON THE COVER OF VOGUE! Being shot by ANNIE LEIBOVITZ! At ANNA WINTOUR’S request! Then, well, tough noogies, you know? You lose. You don’t get to be in the picture. I hope your hysterectomy or anal bleaching was worth it. Frankly, there is nobody so important on this cover that if they weren’t on it, I’d be devastated. I just don’t find this practice of cobbling together people who were photographed in different hemispheres, appealing. It looks clunky and cold. The idea of a photographer taking a “group shot” one person at a time – so that you get everbody’s perfect angle! YAY! – is profoundly retarded. You lose the spontaneity, the emotion, and the human dynamic, that elevates a “picture” into a “photograph,” and possibly into “art.” This cover is not art. It’s not even photography. It looks like something the interns did, with a butter knife and some Scotch tape. And I can’t believe that Anna let such a clumsy cover pass! NOW! When, more than EVER, she needs everything to be FAB! FAB! FAB! When she should be micromanaging her minions towards absolute PERFECTION! When she needs to wow everyone with some really bang-up shiz! And this is clearly not that. I mean, what in the hell is going on over there that this can happen? It’s a bloody mess. I think we are seeing the beginning of the end here. Mark my words, people. One day soon, we will all be looking back on this issue as “the tipping point.”