Can't buy me love, perhaps, but sure can buy me "Friends."
The cast of television's Little Chill is for sale in a big, glossy, hair-gelling, angst-ridden-but-wacky-and-winning way. If you read magazines, you simply cannot escape them, the Gang of Six, promoting themselves and their most excellent coifs. We've now been exposed to details of the Friends' lives that are so frivolous they're almost campy, a hype-lashing so forceful its backswing may be soberingly cruel.
Yes, that is Jennifer Aniston's rear end on the front cover of Rolling Stone for March 7, in the back of the frame and blurred for good taste. Ultimately Ms. Aniston has little to say, except that giving up mayonnaise sandwiches and losing 30 pounds have helped her in Hollywood.
David Schwimmer, on the cover of March's GQ, also has little to say, but the article, by Gerri Hershey, offers some analytical thoughts on the "Friends" phenomenon: "If perpetually single Jerry and Elaine and Kramer are already fixed in a vat of almost-40 amber, if they play a bit cool and brittle in their settled neuroses, the 'Friends' gang radiates the warm glow of possibility. Ovaries are still sprightly, resumes still crisp."
Also find the "Friends" in recent issues of Us, TV Guide, Entertainment Weekly, Movieline and that great leveler, Mad.
The double women's issue of The New Yorker, with Eustacia Tilley on its cover, is chock-full. Henry Louis Gates Jr. looks at the anti-Hillary phenomenon, in which the first lady guesses, "I apparently remind some people of their mother-in-law or their boss or something."
Anna Deavere Smith gives us the voices of seven inmates and an officer of a women's prison, and Wendy Wasserstein muses on her strong sister.