When love rots
A couple quickly turns into a circus.
Dear Todd English and Erica Wang: Thank you from the bottom of our sticky, tabloidish little hearts. We haven’t had a good celebrity romantic hooley to talk about in this staid little burg in far too long. (And, no, Ben Affleck and the current Jen don’t count.) And yours is a 1930s romantic comedy with e-mail and (allegedly) bloodshed. Of course, the two of you arranged to have the wedding in New York, at the St. Regis, but we forgive you both and still consider you our own little feuding royalty. Todd, I have to admit that bolting a society wedding just as the flowers are being delivered is awfully darned Frank Capra of you. (Perhaps you ran off with a runaway heiress? Of course, Claudette Colbert has been dead for a while now.) But, Erica, you topped your swain’s no-show by holding . . . the . . . party . . . anyway. It’s not a wedding! It’s a celebration! The only real blemish, Erica, was that press statement in which you purportedly said, “We both knew that neither of our parents approved of this marriage for a very long time.” What? Why hang this wonderful tale of excess and vanity on Mom and Dad? A great party at the St. Regis and suddenly you guys are Romeo and Juliet? Please. Come on, own your own cartoon. After all, the two of you proved to us the logical corollary of what
F. Scott Fitzgerald once said about the rich being different from the rest of us. Some of them are very silly.
Charles P. Pierce / email@example.com