I have a subscription to New York Magazine. I like to read it because the cover articles tend to be edgy and intelligent, and the publication as a whole tends to be more pop culture friendly than their slightly stuffy counter-periodical, The New Yorker. If you don’t live in NYC or around it, you might not have heard about NY Mag, which is fine. It’s a little inside-jokey. A little self-referential — cultivating a between-the-lines feeling that the New York publishing world is the center of the universe.

But like that slightly snotty friend who turns around and buys everyone a round of drinks at the bar, I just can’t seem to break up with NY Mag and read my weekly copy faithfully. There’s only one thing about the periodical that really bothers me, and it usually can be skipped over quite readily…unless of course, you’re me, reading it last night.

You see, yesterday I had a long day. The bus ride back from work was so packed it induced claustrophobia, and two people decided to get into a screaming match that included gems such as “SHUT UP, RETARD!!”, “YOU’RE THE RETARD!!”, “ON YOUR MOM!!”, “ON YOURS, MINE’S DEAD!!”. When I got home, my internet and cable were still not working…a problem left over from the weekend, and it was probably around 105 F in my apartment. Pouring myself a bowl of cereal, I sat down and decided to spend the evening reading, and my new copy of New York Magazine was the first thing I got my exhausted hands on.

For a while, it was business as usual, but as I turned the pages, I stopped on what was the final straw of a recurring article. “The Look Book” is a section of NY Mag dedicated to highlighting NYC street fashion. Basically, a reporter and photographer will stop someone on the street and interview them about their “interesting” look. I say “interesting” because most of the outfits are bogus, but NYC is obsessed with bogus fashion, so it works out.

This week, “The Look Book” lost all of it’s shaky credibility with me by falling right into the trap of two self-obsessed twenty-somethings dressed in Boho-hippie-I-try-really-hard-to-look-70’s garb. While their fashion was nothing new, the fact that the reporter deemed their stupidly worth featuring angered me to no end. A sample of the interview:

“You two seem, um, very close.
CHARLOTTE: We’re not lesbians, we’re business partners. We’re about to make a music video with my boyfriend, Sean Lennon. It’s going to be us hunting Sarabeth; she’ll be Diana.

How did you meet?
SARABETH: We met first at a friend’s house. Charlotte walked in with one of her breasts hanging out and someone said, “Hey, your breast is hanging out,” and she said, “That’s okay, I have another.” CHARLOTTE: She’s the coolest person in the world, and I have really good taste. SARABETH: We became best friends and traveled the world together. We went to Europe and to L.A., where our car was seized. We both had mental breakdowns.”

So. Many. Things. To. Hate.

I know these girls, because even though we’re not personal friends, I’ve met them at lame hipster parties countless times. They think they’re incredibly, incredibly amazing. They kind of make out with each other but not really — only enough to interest whomever is not already passed out on a ratty hipster couch. They claim to be a “model / musician” and “philosopher / actress”, a combination so deadly I have to will myself not to puke when thinking about it. Basically, these girls make a career out of kind of making out, bumming rides from hot hippie strangers, and creating naked body paint self-portraits.

I despise NY Magazine for giving these idiots pages in its magazine. This is not the first time “The Look Book” has allowed someone stupid to talk about their stupidness. Alas, it happens often, because as stated before, New York City is kind of obsessed with bogus fashion and the self-obsessed people who are self-obsessed enough to wear it.

Maybe the whole point of “The Look Book” is to show how weird some people are, but I kind of doubt it. I kind of think the fashion editors at that magazine take it seriously. And that, my friends, that makes me sad.

It also gives me a headache.