This is a modern problem. In the days before all this technology, everyone watched the same things, at the same time. If you missed a TV show, you were SOL - but you didn't miss it. And should you, you didn't risk running into anything more hazardous to the enjoyment of a plot twist than a mouthy coworker. Of course, there were still twists: Psycho's publicists went to famous lengths to keep the plot secret, and a recent trailer I saw for Spencer Tracy's 1941 Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde requested that the audience not "tell their friends" about the actor's dramatic transformation.

But clearly, it's become an issue, especially with must-see series like Mad Men, that people are as apt to watch a few days or even months after airing as not. It's something we run across a lot on this site: how much to give away? What's fair game? How much is universally known? January Jones has gone on record in her belief that, once aired, the term "spoiler" isn't applicable. And this increasingly rigid definition is gaining ground amongst those who are sick of tiptoeing around the viewing habits of others.

Point: In a recent essay on the blog Televiosinary, Jace Lacob asserted his argument thusly:

I firmly believe that, once an episode has aired across the country, all bets are off. It's a free-for-all, as far as I am concerned. Writers, critics, bloggers, whoever, should be free to discuss the episode's intricacies and plot developments with abandon. There's no need to label a post, an interview, or anything as a "spoiler" because it's not spoiling anything.

Sums up one of his commenters, "The simple rule should be: Before the fact, spoiler. After the fact, public. Those of us who write/blog/talk about TV on a regular basis can't be expected to know the viewing habits of all our readers."

And another, "Asking that writers, editors and sites label something that's already aired as a "spoiler" is essentially asking them to tailor their coverage to the individual reader who has not seen it. I know people time delay their viewing. The simple solution, as stated above, avoid the sites."

Counterpoint: The retort of Slashfilm's David Chin, however, is equally straightforward. "Really, how difficult is it to just throw up a sentence at the beginning of the post explaining what exactly you'll cover/spoil?" Furthermore, he argues, the notion of "airing" is arbitrary nowadays.

The world of broadcast and cable television is rapidly moving away from the idea of fixed schedules for television shows. Very few of my friends and colleagues watch shows on TV when the air, and if they do, they also use things like DVD, DVR, and Hulu to supplement the episodes they don't see. On the one hand, I question how realistic and reasonable it is to expect people to know exactly where a show is in its timeline. If you're catching up with a show on DVD/DVR/Hulu, it's entirely possible that you will have no idea what episodes have recently aired. And while you would be a good, well-behaved TV watcher if you kept informed, it's a lot easier for me to take five seconds to write a one-sentence spoiler warning than for you to find out where exactly a show is in its release schedule.

Weighing in, NPR's Linda Holmes takes a middle ground, but feels the silent treatment is, ultimately, unrealistic. "At some point, we have just entirely lost the quality of the discussion, because I am leading you through a series of security doors that 95 percent of people won't care about and will find cumbersome and frustrating, just so that you can avoid knowing that Pam has a sister who will be on an upcoming episode." A wild-card view comes from the Guardian's Peter Robins, who argues that sometimes - as in the case of a highly sexual movie one sees with one's elderly mother - a spoiler is not just appreciated but necessary.

Of course, a lot of the argument boils down to common sense. Robins is talking about content, not plot. No matter when it runs, a story should try not to reveal a major spoiler in the title, especially if as in the case of our layout, one can stumble upon it in the course of a casual scan. A year later is not the same as a day. By the same token, don't read a post about a show you're saving because you had a dinner with your boyfriend's family. Understand that some things are common knowledge. And also know that (with the exception of various horror films) the pleasure does not all lie in the twists. For instance, I was still able to enjoy Hamlet.

Why Talking About An Episode That's Already Aired Isn't A "Spoiler" [Televiosionary]
Spoiler Alert: The Responsibility Of Online Writers In A Hulu/DVR World [Slashfilm]
Film Spoilers Can Be Good For You [Guardian]
The Spoiler Problem (Contains Spoilers) [NPR]

Related: January Jones Doesn't Believe In Mad Men Spoilers

In 2003, Louis Vuitton — fabricator of the most luxurious and luxe of all the luxury super-deluxe handbags to be made of coated canvas — launched a collaboration with Murakami, a multi-media artist perhaps best-known for his manga-inspired "superflat" paintings. Murakami produced a five-minute ad that played in Louis Vuitton stores, and designer Marc Jacobs had the artist redesign the signature Louis Vuitton Monogram canvas in a variety of ways. Murakami made two different multi-colored monogram patterns, a design which kept the original brown-and-gold monogram but overlaid it with cherries and animé characters, and one that featured cherry blossoms. All of these fabrics were turned into purses like these:

Image via the Guardian

Which, if you were alive in 2003, you doubtless saw plenty of on the street. Perhaps some nice sorority ladies from your local institution of higher education modeled them for you? (This was before the vogue for Vera Bradley.) Or maybe you spied a woman in capris and a pastel button-down stepping down from the cockpit of an SUV with one slung over her arm. Either way, they were around. But Clint Arthur, a Los Angeles-area distributor of gourmet butter, apparently didn't see any of them. When the Museum of Contemporary Art threw a Murakami retrospective in 2007, and opened a Louis Vuitton pop-up store selling Murakami's work on its premises, the monogram fabric designs were sold as prints in editions of 500. The boutique called them "canvasses revisited by Takashi Murakami," and so Arthur bought two at $6,000 apiece.

Arthur's contention is that the canvases, aside from just being purses without the handles and trim, were not "revisited" by Murakami at all: and the designs are, in fact, identical to the fabric used for the purses. (Because they are the purse fabric! Which any sighted person alive in the first world in 2003, let alone any collector with a supposed interest in Murakami, might have recognized!) But then, there's an argument to be made that cutting the fabric to a different size and stretching it over a frame does constitute "revisiting" the material and its purpose. (Insert point about Warhol's Brillo boxes here.) The entire nature of a print is that it's a reproducible, mass-produced object which nonetheless straddles the boundaries of art. The re-appropriation of mass-market imagery is integral to Murakami's work in general, not just his stuff for Louis Vuitton. The fact that Arthur has refused a refund of his purchase price, with interest, does not necessarily endear me to his lawsuit.

But then again, MOCA might have done more to let patrons know that the pop-up Louis Vuitton boutique in its gallery space was just selling four-year-old textiles as prints. As for LVMH, perhaps it's just my gender speaking, but I'm inured to the shock of such shysterism on the part of a luxury company. Charging $2000 for a canvas handbag might be criminal, but it ain't against the law. Calling the fabric left over an art print probably isn't either.

Louis Vuitton Suit Adds Fraud Allegation [LA Times]
Superflat Monogram — Takashi Murakami for Louis Vuitton [YouTube]

See, fashion is an industry based on image. Do you follow? Because, W has noticed, one of the effects of this is that people who work in fashion tend to be judged on how they dress. Kind of a lot, even. So many of them take the question of what to wear very seriously! And journalists, well, they find it interesting to write about in great detail without even a hint of the broader economic outlook or the narrowness of the audience that regularly wears $300 t-shirts from The Row and Lanvin flats.

Journalist Vanessa Lawrence's premise is almost too simple to be believed. "Working in fashion," she writes, "necessitates being fashionable from the moment you leave the house. And it is an implicit requirement that can prove exhausting for even the most passionate of clotheshorses....But when the weekend rolls around, they are faced with a dilemma: how to keep up appearances while giving their Yves Saint Laurent Tributes and Balenciaga sheaths a breather-if they choose to do so. Between trips to the gym, brunch dates and grocery store excursions, that 48-hour stretch is hardly a time for hibernation."

That's right. When you work in fashion, in addition to needing always to look your best, you might need to dress differently on different occasions. For instance, the weekend. Or the Hamptons! And any forays to distant nations — like the Upper East Side of New York, also known as "10021 land," where people wear these things called "blazers" and look "decked." What's a fashion worker bee to do?

Weirdly enough, everyone Lawrence quotes still seems to dress really well on the weekends. "When I'm in the Hamptons getting stuff at Citarella on the weekends, I'll see fashion girls who are in Marni and Lanvin in the daytime and I'm in a Tracy Feith cotton dress, Jack Rogers sandals and a ponytail," says designer Shoshanna Gruss, whose idea of 'weekend casual' is wholly relative. Others seem not to grasp Lawrence's issue: "French people don't really ‘underdress' on the weekends," remarks a confused Julia Restoin-Roitfeld.

There are plenty of moments of hilarity as the reporter valiantly tries to get a handle on the problem of what to wear in one's off hours. "Gruss's appropriately pulled-together look extends beyond Long Island summers to her Upper East Side residence," writes Lawrence; what range.

The thing is, anyone who spends a lot of time with magazine editors and stylists and General Fashion Personages knows a few things. For one, most of them do not have a lot of money — certainly not enough to be dropping $800 on stilettos every season. (Whether you've got a friendly quid pro quo going with a label's PR depeartment, or something occasionally goes missing from the styling closet is another issue.) For another, most of these people wear the same things every day. All-black ensembles are the norm, not the exception — because it's easy to look stylish in a dark monochrome, and you can switch out accessories without anything clashing, which is crucial if you spend a lot of time traveling and need to look like you have more outfits than you actually do. There are remarkably few people in fashion who consistently dress in ways that turn heads; pretty much everyone just wants to be stylish and look as nice as they can while they're working.

Which is fine, and normal, and fun — and the total opposite of the sort of sartorial-psychological weekend arms race Lawrence's article conveniently invents and then lavishes with attention, perpetuating the myth that all fashion folk are better-dressed than anyone else, and at all times. The real story is told in the pictures that accompany it: they're little images of the article's subject, photographed going about their daily lives, working in the fashion industry. Nobody looks bad — there's Charlotte Ronson at an event in a white dress and a black cardigan; Restoin-Roitfeld in denim shorts, a blue Oxford, and a blazer; Kate Etter in ballet flats, leggings, a green tunic and a long sweater. But nobody looks "fancy" or as purposefully styled as Lawrence's article implies is the industry norm. These look like outfits that have been doing reliable service in various forms for seasons already, and which will continue to see the light of day for a long time into the future. Bags and shoes might wash over Bryant Park like a tide each season, but a good pair of black pants is for the ages. And even people who work in fashion have enough good sense to know they can be worn on the weekends and to work.

Cartoon illustration via W

Weekend Warriors [W]

"I wanted not a single tooth mark on the dog," says Ms. Turbeville, 54. Her solution: a paste of cayenne pepper and Cholula Hot Sauce, which she painted on its tail. The cats still sniff the Aibo's backside. "They just can't help it. But they never, ever bite him anymore."

Dealing with your weight in a healthy way, as opposed to letting it get in the way of your life—which I did for many years, is a feminist issue. And to get stuck on weight, to be standing in a dressing room with women of every nationality, talking about how much they hate themselves—"I hate my hips, I hate my thighs, I hate my stomach, I hate myself"—is not very feminist. And it sold more copies than any other book I ever wrote.

So...why do you need new underwear? Well, you can't really search inside the book. I imagine that feeling confident and sexy and secure in your attractiveness is all part of being a good feminist and it is a lot easier if you have nice underwear, though I have gotten to the point where on the off-chance I get laid I do not really give a shit if I am wearing the giant stained Queen-sized Hanes I bought one morning in desperation at the Chestnut Rite Aid, because, you know, like that guy is really going to become my husband anyway. But wait, I'm off-topic: is there such a thing as a "diet book for smart women"? I know I write about dieting a lot, namely to derive page views from a common dysfunction so many of us have shared, but seriously, a whole book? I promise you that you will lose more weight if you just sit still a minute and read, like, the New York Review Of Books or something. Oh shit, there I start with the dieting advice again.

Susan Estrich On The Battle Of The Sexes [Psychology Today]