Here’s something that never goes out of style: a good, old-fashioned celebrity feud.
Unfortunately, the tried and true competitors in the catfights of recent memory have devoted their attentions elsewhere. Lindsay Lohan is busy with her regimen of probation hearings and collagen injections. We can’t count on Kim Kardashian, what with her parasitic child—and the baby they’re having, too. Poor Amanda Bynes is lost in a world where cheek piercings are acceptable. They are all too busy to pay any attention to foul fracases and catty conflicts.
But fret not, feud fiends, we don’t need the snarky starlets or plucky personalities of the tabloids to give us our daily brawl; in this idyllic corner of Maine, we have our own acclaimed altercation! With all the flinging and flailing, it has the styling of the best (and by that I mean the worst) feuds of those paparazzi-chased and pampered partiers—only this pickle is more patrician (had enough alliteration yet?) and peppers the pages of Bloomberg and the Wall Street Journal rather than TMZ and the National Enquirer.
I refer, of course, to that sordid squabble between our very own President Barry Mills and one Tom Klingenstein, whose claims to fame, like the scrappiest and most amusing celebrity feuders, seem to be enormous wealth, immense ego, and lots of time. Coupled with—and this is another trademark of the most fabulous feuds—a remarkable ability to hold a grudge. Dear Tom Kardashian—er, Klingenstein—is on track to become America’s Next Top Feuder.
I’m not really interested in the politics of the feud, who started it, or who’s right and who’s wrong. I don’t mean that everyone shares the blame or that it’s too complicated to sort out, but this celebrity feud, like all the rest, is far too fatuous to take seriously. That, if nothing else, is what I’ve learned from years of watching the rotting wreckage of the Lohans.
Feuds are ridiculously fun to watch, what with the vein-popping shouting, the snide mocking, and, most importantly, the clothes.
Sometimes it’s too easy to predict the winner of the feud simply by looking at their costume. We all knew Angelina (in her daring décolleté and torrid tattoos) would best poor Jen (always in blasé beige) before their fight had even begun.
With most feuds, I’ve noticed, the contenders have eerily similar sartorial inclinations. Rosie O’Donnell and Donald Trump have shared a love of bad haircuts and ill-fitting pantsuits. At some point, Lindsay Lohan and Hillary Duff both favored chokers and horrible tee shirts made of a mysterious synthetic material (maybe the Disney Channel had some kind of deal with Limited Too). And, when they were feuding, Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears looked impossibly identical.
And the same is true, I imagine, for our feuders du jour, Barry and Tom. Although I’ve never actually seen Klingenstein, I’ll bet he favors the same custom-tailored luxury suits that keep Bowdoin’s president looking dapper. We know, of course, they both love a good round of golf, and I can picture them on the green: both in wicking, golf polo shirts with some insignia or other, Barry in blue, Tom in white, and in the requisite khaki pants. They’re probably wearing baseball caps, too, although Barry would look better (if I may be so bold) in a Panama hat. They are the picture of sartorial harmony, but don’t be fooled by their agreeing attire.
The palpable parallels between Barry and Tommy go beyond their homogeneous habiliments. Were those swanky suits and that stylish sportswear part of the curriculum of the NESCAC schools of the seventies (Mills and Klingenstein attended Bowdoin and Williams, respectively)? Or was that something they learned en route to the upper echelons of corporate America? Maybe each was handed some kind of sartorial manual upon his first appearance in the society pages of Manhattan’s elite? Like Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie before them, these two have walked the same road—or rather ridden in the same limousine—and yet have found themselves in very different places.
I suppose that when it comes to famous fights, clothes fail us. Does this mean that it’s what’s inside that counts? I don’t think so. I’ve hit on the real reason for all these seemingly senseless squabbles: we all want to be singular and unique, our style outstanding from the rest. Britney and Christina each wanted to be the blonde pop idol. Rosie and Donald couldn’t get along because they both wanted be the grump who yells at people on television. Perhaps Barry and Tommy both are trying to exemplify the modern gentleman: liberally educated, professionally prosperous, and philanthropically inclined (though they champion wildly different causes).
Maybe Mr. Klingenstein is just upset that he and Barry were wearing the same golf shoes—I figure that’s a good a reason as any. So here’s my advice to him, Next time, go shopping for some chic new clothes, not a dull and spurious report.
They say the clothes make the man, don’t they? Or am I misquoting?