It's a Helluva Town

At least that's what the masses who have made their way to Manhattan's shores have proclaimed (profaned?) for generations. And with all due respect to Pierre Bordieu, these transplants (including yours truly) have held one truth to be self-evident: New York City is the only cultural capital worth craving. It doesn't matter whether we wide-eyed wayfarers hope to tread the boards in Times Square, make our mark on Madison Avenue, or win a fifteen-minute-run through the Page Six rumor mill; the real reason we moved here was to vie for la vie. Unconvinced? How many cosmos did you and your three best friends swill before your midnight screening of SATC: The Movie? As I suspected. So trade in those vagabond shoes for Jimmy Choos and start gushing--unabashedly--over the glamorous life Gotham has to offer.

And what better way to inaugurate this City-centric page than to discuss the phenomenon that embodies the electronic exaltation of New York's elite: Gossip Girl. I'll admit, when I first heard of the show, I dismissed it as typical tween fare, with a shelf life no longer than the median duration of puberty. Yet, despite deceptively low ratings, GG has permeated--if not downright pummeled--the cultural landscape, prodding Old Man Nielsen to reevaluate his methods. It even prompted Manhattan's female population to believe that, this season, Puritan is the new Parisian. (Unless, of course, you're inclined to traipse through Central Park in nothing but your nightie. Or attend Ivy League interviews in bustiers that would make a Pussycat Doll blush. But I digress.)

While the break-out star of the show is undoubtedly She of the Shiny Hair, I pledge my allegiance to Blair Waldorf, the socialite sociopath with the heart--er, credit card--of gold, the very sort of sophisticate we new New Yorkers dream of emulating.

Leighton Meester as Blair Waldorf

While her closest frenemy, Serena van der Woodsen, simply giggles her way into the world's good graces, Blair has always been relegated to the rank of second-class royalty, forced to intimidate--rather than charm--her subjects into submission. The only time The Queen B truly intercepted the social scepter? When S *killed* a coke addict and absconded to Connecticut. But if not for those years struggling to escape Serena's siren call, we would be bereft of the bitch we adore today. Where would be those self-destructive schemes? Those deflective bon mots? That armoire (armory?) of couture, meant to distract from the bulimia-ravaged body her mother still compares to Edna Turnblad?

But alas, fellow Gothamites, though Leighton Meester may play this paragon of City-chic to Emmy-worthy perfection, we must face the fact that Blair Waldorf is but fiction, and the young woman who portrays her is but another actor-cum-aspiring-musician, as eager to cash in on her celebrity as any CW starlet before she goes the way of Felicity. (How B would disapprove!) The latest, most disheartening proof of Ms. Meester's mere mortality? Hot on the rubber heels of castmate Ed Westwick's descent into discount shilling, news has leaked that Leighton sold out for a sneaker line herself.


WTF, LM? Just as leggings aren't pants, Reeboks do not a fashion icon make.