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The New Yorker

photo shop of horrors

French (Photo Retouchers) Don't Let Famous Women Get Fat

Remember the horror of that almost-unrecognizable atrocity at left? Turns out we can blame Pascal Dangin for that. Dangin, you see, is what writer Lauren Collins, in this week's issue of the New Yorker, calls "the premier retoucher of fashion photographs", a onetime hairdresser who so believes in reincarnation (symbolic, not metaphysical) that, when he moved from France to the U.S in 1989, he chose the first very flight out of Charles de Gaulle airport on the very first day of the new year.

Many women are transformed by Dangin's computer stylus, which sits in a basement laboratory at "Box", his four-story, Manhattan Photoshop fortress: In addition to Drew, there is the trophy wife with the "flat" face and "short" legs; the shoulder blade found "in a recent project at W"; the cast of the Sopranos; Prada models; "a famous actress in her late twenties"; a "crunchy"-faced model; "another well known actress"; "an actress with a movie coming out this spring"; Kate Moss; models Liya Kebede and Raquel Zimmerman; Madonna. And then there is model Christy Turlington, who, Collins explains, "needs the least help".

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crappy hour

Obama: Gotta Get That Dirt Off Your Shoulder

Another week, another Friday Crappy Hour in which the lesser-known Crappyist Megan (of Glamocracy) is forced to beg for someone to write it with her so that she can avoid talking to herself online like she does in real life. Luckily, Spencer Ackerman (of the Washington Independent and the newly-launched Attackerman) is as big an intellectual whore as I ever was despite having never been a lobbyist. We talk about how the New Yorker loves to quote bloggers but never by name, campaign sex, how W. cock-blocked Spencer more-than-just-metaphorically in November 2000 and how the Hamas endorsement of Obama is just part of the vast right-wing conspiracy or something. Guess Obama's got some other dirt to brush off his shoulder. More »

Death & Cellulite When it comes to best-selling covers, the weeklies win with fatalities and flesh, reports the New York Post. Aside from special issues, like "Sexiest Man Alive," People magazine's best-selling issue in 2007 dealt with the apparent suicide attempt of Owen Wilson. So far, their best selling issue of 2008 was the memoriam to Heath Ledger. Star's best-seller? "Best and Worst Beach Bodies." (Meanwhile, over at Us, editor Janice Min is "breaking news" with revelations about Hilary Clinton's wardrobe and Barack Obama's love of hot sauce, The New Yorker points out.) What does it mean that the American public craves information about corpses and corpulence? [New York Post, The New Yorker]