We’ve gotten a lot of requests from Fug Nation that we address this cover, and we hate to disappoint.
Let’s start with the good: Anne’s face looks gorgeous and fabulous, especially compared to the droopy dullard Vogue made her out to be. This is actually, energy-wise, the exact opposite. This person has been drinking carrot juice spiked with Red Bull; that other lady hasn’t stood up in three days because her servants are really good at peeling her grapes and giving sponge-baths. Second, her tank top is in support of Eve Ensler’s One Billion Rising campaign to educate people about — and call them to arms to fight — violence against women, and no one can argue the nobility of that message. So good for Glamour and Anne for getting the word out.
However, the rest of this seems like she’s about to pop on those giant headphones, put on some candy-pink legwarmers, and go for a jog that ends with impromptu jazzercise in the park, before maybe getting pulled on-stage with Bruce Springsteen during his “Dancing In The Dark” video. So essentially, she’s 1980s Courteney Cox right now. And that’s not necessarily bad. It might even be Fun. But full of Sex and Style it isn’t. Particularly when I can see her bra — it’s like a dark shadow undercutting her cause’s logo — and those granny panties are bunching all over her stomach. I don’t know. If she’d put on some pants, though, I’d kind of like to hang out with this genuinely smiley Anne. I could even deal with it if she didn’t put on pants, I suppose, as long as she bopped around all day with a Sports Walkman connected to the end of those headphones, because that would be hella entertaining. But I can’t help but wonder why they went to those weird styling extremes when that head, the tank top, and better decorations around it would’ve been appealing without the feeling of being a) in a time warp, or b) being too exhausted by her incomparable oozing energy even to heave the magazine off the newsstand.