Perhaps the Inclusion of Ruth Reichl Is A Joke...

We don't quite give a rat's rectum about the fashionistas (Redact this word from the vernacular, please. This is why they hate us. Okay, I jest.), but our literati choice is Susan Orlean, with whom we once shared in intimate moment at Barnes & Noble. She seemed unconvinced at our suggestion that her flap photo was sexier than Meryl Streep's in Adaptation.

For what it's worth, we must insist on the disqualification of Deborah Treisman, on the grounds that The New Yorker's fiction has been low-grade since she replaced Bill Buford in 2002.

The last decent story she ran was this one, and before that... Well, we suspect Wolff wrote that one, too. (Yes, we know... she deserves credit for having the guts to run a story by one of the finest writers in the English language. One day, she might summon up the gumption to let Sherwood Anderson into those hallowed pages.)