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Gilded ink
At the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, conspicuous consumption is a highly profitable commodity.

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By David Carr

Sept. 10, 1999 | Late '90s America is so jam-packed with rich people that advertisers are scrambling to find new ways to perform cash-ectomies on them. Glossy magazines like Vanity Fair and In Style, both setting the mailbox to groaning with their phonebook girth, are no longer enough. In an infinitely expanding economy rife with stupid money, companies that make high-end goods -- and the ad agencies who pimp them -- have to innovate.

In this digital age, who would have thought that a major beneficiary of the heedless needs of the newest of the nouveau riche would be venerable newsprint?

For decades, the glossies -- the New Yorker, Vanity Fair, Vogue and her ugly sisters -- owned the franchise for collecting money from the purveyors of the stylish and vestigial; newspapers had to content themselves with real estate voyeurism as an adjunct to their classifieds. Of course, there was a time when dailies dipped into glossy pretension with their Sunday magazines, but these have gradually attenuated as the mega-spending department stores have increasingly favored their own glossified inserts. Even the vaunted Sunday New York Times Magazine is looking a little anorexic, pummeled by the competition from all corners of the mag world.

But now the Wall Street Journal's Weekend Journal and the New York Times' Sunday Styles section have suddenly become less traditional newspaper sections than broadsheet catalogs, ink-stained bastions of yuppie porn configured to create desire.

Newsprint has a peculiar attribute: While the current crop of men's and women's magazines will clearly do anything to push product, there is an assumption that staid old print is concerned with higher, calmer matters. Like the cheaply printed fliers for the cheaply priced hardware store, the medium offers a message of reassurance. Each week, both papers set out in a slatternly quest to find ever more expensive ways of getting married, mowing the lawn, or putting things in your pie-hole. Only the Journal and the Times have the robust demographics to make this gussied-up version of a blue-collar medium hum like a $490 electric razor.

These daily mitzvahs for the recently wealthy are themselves fat and happy. The Times stumbled hard with the launch of a daily Styles section a few years back, but found its stride with daily consumer sections about gadgets, food and housewares. WSJ's Weekend Journal, a Friday sonnet to the art of avarice launched back in March 1998, is a massively successful extension of the Journal brand. According to the July 12 Media Industry Newsletter, second-year revenues at Weekend Journal section will total $34 million, 70 percent over the previous year and far ahead of projections.

"Certain advertisers have always loved our demographic, but we didn't have the right environment for them. Weekend Journal is right for a lot of these guys. And on the reader's side, I think it's clear we are meeting an important need, which is what drives advertising," says Richard Tofel, vice president of corporate communications for Dow Jones and Co., which publishes the Journal.

Like power boats that seat only two people while costing more than most houses, the newly enriched sections of this grubby medium offer daily iterations of how many clueless knuckleheads have found themselves in receipt of tall money that they have no idea what to do with. Forget the millennium, isn't one of the surest signs of the apocalypse that Armani and Gucci are buying big girly ads to cuddle up betwixt the gray pinstripes of Journal text?

"As a reader, I am thrilled to see [those ads]," says Joanne Lipman, Weekend editor. "I think it adds a great deal to the paper. Our letters suggest, and this is purely anecdotal, that Weekend is a family read, passed around by family members. In some instances, it's replacing their weekend metro paper, while others compare it to a magazine."

. Next page | Weekend Journal: The post-coital paper of choice for Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo



 

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