expensive shit
“I think teenagers are all the same everywhere,” says
Kira Plastinia, a 15-year-old Russian, and "wrinkles her nose." Kira is apparently the Miley Cyrus meets Mary Kate Olsen of the former Soviet Republics; her dad, an orange juice mogul, bought her a a clothing line, and a signature shade of pink, and Paris Hilton's number, and a horse named Baloven — meaning "someone who is spoiled and treated too well" — and now a store in Manhattan, which has inspired a profile in
New York Magazine. Wait, am I really burdening you with this information? Do we really have such a dearth of the great global wealth concentration's photogenic beneficiaries over here? Over the weekend I was dutifully forcing myself to read the
NY Times' review of a book called
Bringing Home The Birkin, which chronicles the quest of an eBay Power Seller to land one of the coveted Hermes bags. "What is a Birkin bag and why on earth should I care?" demands editor Sam Tanenhaus of the book's critic,
T: The New York Times Style Magazine editor Christine Muhlke, on the
Review's weekly
podcast.
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