Eat the rich

Have you ever wanted to
kick a cartoon's ass?

I really, really, really, really don't want to write about Gwyneth again. But what Gwynnie wants, Gwynnie gets. And she obviously wants me to keep writing about her because she keeps topping herself with stupider and stupider shit.


So with that we have another edition of lifestyles of privileged and assy, starring GP and her famous friends. ld;skfhjkhnmdjfhklwejn...oh, sorry, I just vomited and passed out for a minute on my keyboard. Get ready to do the same.


You may have seen our pretty, pretty princess in the news a lot lately. That's because she's bestowed more of her valuable Secrets to Life upon us vassals in the form of a cookbook entitled My Father's Daughter: Delicious, Easy Recipes Celebrating Family & Togetherness. "In the last 10 years or so, cooking has become my main ancillary passion in life," she gushes in the introduction. Annoying us all by way of GOOP isn't enough for this woman. No, she must come at us from all angles: the television, the movie screen, the computer, Books-A-Million... she won't be satisfied until we see her in our sleep like a specter or incubus cackling manically and quoting Shakespeare. 


The New Yorker's recent profile of GOOPy will give you a little glimpse of what that nightmare might look like (Come to think of it, she should divorce Chris and marry Eustace Tilley, that cartoon prick that serves as The New Yorker's mascot. They could polish their monocles, eat Italian truffles and sniff haughtily about the gauche bourgeoisie.)

It’s tough for some people to accept Gwyneth Paltrow’s transformation from movie star to domestic goddess. Something about the combination of her willowy looks, her glam life style (she is married to Chris Martin, the Coldplay front man), and the unlikely food tips in her e-mail newsletter, Goop—“I was stationed at the deep fat fryer (Delight! Fried zucchini! Fried anchovies!)”—produces cognitive dissonance. 

OK, I already want to begin slowly sawing away at my eyelids with a cheese grater. Being married to Chris Martin, the Coldplay front man, makes her glam? That's like saying soysage is glam. 

Paltrow, who was hosting a dinner party to celebrate her publication, was not yet drinking, but she had a glow.... Dinner guests included people who do know her: Jay-Z, Cameron Diaz, Alex Rodriguez, the Seinfelds, and assorted food-world worthies. Most guests saw nothing unusual about getting cooking advice from a stick-thin actress; in fact, many said that they associated Gwyneth Paltrow with food. Mario Batali, in pink cargo shorts, was talking to Ruth Reichl. “She eats like a truck driver,” he said of Paltrow. He recalled being in Valencia, Spain, and “watching her eat an entire pan of paella as big as a manhole cover.” Michael Stipe added, “Once, a duck she was cooking caught fire, and she threw it in the pool.”

Oh, pa-hahahahahaha! Michael Stipe, do tell us again about the time Gwyneth tossed the flaming duck into the pool! Muffy, Wilhelm, you realllllly must hear this delightful story! I could hear it a thousand times and still laugh and laugh!


Seriously, can you imagine anything worse than being at a party with Mario Batali in pink cargo shorts and Michael Stipe telling some "amusing" anecdote about a Gwyneth Paltrow and a flaming duck? I mean, I want to think of something funny that could be worse, but I can't. That is as bad as it gets. That can't even be called a party; it's Dante's purgatory. 


Oh, wait a minute...it can get worse. God help us.

Christy Turlington looked on. “We are lucky in that we have been the recipients of many meals with Gwyneth Paltrow,” she said, and mentioned a stuffed-lobster dish that Paltrow and Martin had served in Amagansett. “They do everything themselves, including the killing of the lobster,” she said. “It’s not the boiling-in-the-pot-and-screaming lobster thing. It’s a different, faster approach. I could never do it.”

Was there ever a more perfect time for a recreation of Waco? 

A financier at the party said that he associated Paltrow with scungilli: “My family and I were conch-diving down in the Bahamas. They’d cook the conch right there on the beach. And they had a TV in the little hut there, and that’s where I watched the Oscars this year.” 

Readers, I could start railing about how people are starving in the world, how people in Japan are struggling to pull their lives back together, how just 60 cents a day could buy condensed milk for an entire village. But you don't need me to appeal to your sense of compassion to realize these entitled, self-important tallywhackers need to take their conch-diving and little beach huts with TVs and go fuck themselves. God!

At 9 p.m., the guests went out to a pair of long tables on the terrace. Diaz, A-Rod, and Batali sat near Chris Martin, who had arrived looking cranky. (A publicist warned, “He doesn’t want to talk.”) Paltrow sat a few seats away, flanked by Jerry Seinfeld and Jay-Z. (The next day, she and the rapper posted reciprocal interviews on their websites. Paltrow: “I could sing to you every single word of N.W.A’s ‘Fuck tha Police.’ ”) 

This is another portion of the story that intends to make us all think Gwynnie is cool and hip. She's down with N.W.A. and Jay-Z. Are they really fooling anybody here? Cripes, if Jay-Z had any kind of street cred left (hint: he doesn't, but let's pretend), it all went bye-bye when (a.) he dined with Seinfeld at Gwyneth's, and (b.) he interviewed Gwyneth on his website. 


And Chris Martin cranky? I don't believe it! I thought that frosty, ostentatious demeanor was all just part of his big, rich rock star persona and he's really a happy-go-lucky guy.


Just kidding. Chris Martin is a total dick.

Paltrow announced the menu: roasted red peppers with anchovies, escarole salad, pasta with duck ragout. Jessica Seinfeld made a toast: “There is no one who is more comfortable or more capable in the kitchen, naturally, than you,” she said to Paltrow. “I don’t know how you do it.” She turned to the assembled guests. “And you are all so lucky to be part of Gwyneth’s world. Because this is the real deal. And she’s invited all of you good people in here. I would never do that.”

Um, haha? Guests, Jessica Seinfeld just said would never have all you filthy animals dropping your cooties all over her kitchen like Gwyneth does. Is it possible there is someone at this meeting of the minds who is more priggish than the hostess? Ooh, maybe I should start blogging about little Jessi S. 


Despite what Mrs. Seinfeld says, not everyone at the monster's ball felt lucky to be a part of Gwyneth's world.

Wendi Murdoch, sitting nearby, had said that she is a reader of Paltrow’s blog: “Only one thing comes to mind—healthy and organic.” She listed her favorite recipes: “Pumpkin soup, grilled market vegetables. It’s good. I get my chef to cook it.” 

“But you’re directing the chef,” Kelly Behun, a friend of Murdoch’s, interjected. Behun, an interior designer, was the only guest who didn’t have a Paltrow-related food memory. 

“Gwyneth?” she said. “When I see her, I don’t think of food.”

OK, I don't throw around the C-word too much, but it really is the only appropriate description here. This party has officially made the Guiness Book for having the largest gathering of cunts per capita in the world. Congratulations! Ug, what a bunch of vapid snobs! It's like the rich kids in an John Hughes movie, but real. They may as well be carrying opera glasses and discussing junk bonds. 


What would have made this story better is if the duck caught on fire again, except this time Gwynnie throws it on Michael Stipe. Because of all the acrylic hair, the fire spreads quickly. And then the sprinkler system comes on, but it malfunctions and showers everyone with electricity. And then Eazy E's ghost drives by in an Impala and sprays the whole group with AK-47 bullets and they all die screaming in a pile of linen, summer-weight cashmere and burnt anchovies.


God, I'm so annoyed by this article. I think I'm having an aneurysm. sdf;lkj;eklrmn,n;glkad;m