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Recently in Salon People

Nothing Personal
Gown gobbling in Gotham
Consuming fashion in the Big Apple; Bezos luvs Bill; Paul Newman: Unhandsome me! Plus: Claudia Schiffer's new bedmate!
By Amy Reiter
[11/19/99]

Obituary
Mary Kay Bergman
The voice of Wendy Testaburger, Mayor McDaniels and Ms. Crabtree dies at 38.
By Andy Dehnart
[11/19/99]

People Feature
Hollyween meltdown
The party is costume-mandatory: John Cusack comes as a werewolf, James Woods comes and leaves, Neve Campbell comes as herself -- no one gets it.
By David Goodman
[11/19/99]

Nothing Personal
Buffalo 36-D
Christina Ricci's Love Hewitt jones; Streisand just says no to running; Monica Lewinsky's zipless clutch. Plus: Auctioning child's baby clothes on Internet? Zero dollars. Drew Barrymore's childhood? Priced.
By Amy Reiter
[11/18/99]

People Feature
I sold commie posters to a future Supreme Court justice
Long ago His Honor paid 10 bucks for a Bolshevik broadsheet. I wonder where it's hanging now.
By Jock O'Connell
[11/18/99]

Complete archives for People

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Once, long ago, cosmetic surgery was the exclusive domain of the rich. Now even mobile-home denizens can have instantly shapely buttocks! Is this a great country, or what?

I call the number on the screen to obtain my free "That Look" pamphlet, and before I know it, I'm learning that "cosmetic procedures are accepted today by people from all walks of life." According to the brochure, "Success -- whether in our business or personal lives -- often depends upon the image we project."

So ... cosmetic surgery is the ticket out of poverty? But isn't it, um, prohibitively expensive? "The value of new self-confidence and a strong personal presence go well beyond price."

Well fuck me sideways! This deal is too good to pass up! I wonder what would happen if, say, a rather unstable individual were to call and request several inane modifications. Would some sensible person try to talk him out of the procedure? Inquiring minds want to know.

I dial 1-800-IMAGES-1, and inform the operator that I saw their "Judge Judy" commercial, and was wondering if they could point me in the direction of the cosmetic surgery that's right for me.

"You don't have something particular you want to change about yourself?"

"No. It just looked like such a good deal, I didn't want to pass it up."

[Pause.] "OK. We do face lifts, eyes, around the mouth, tummy tucks, stretch marks ... um, that sort of thing."

"It's such a hard decision," I whine. "Couldn't you tell me what I need when I come in?"

"Generally people have something in mind. Do you have a particular area of the body you're not happy with?"

[Another pause.] "No, not really. I didn't really think about it until I saw the commercial. It looked like a such a good deal! I just like to go in and see what they suggest."

[This time, a long pause.] "OK ..."

Finally, I suggest that I might be interested in achieving more massive buttocks. She instructs me to fill out a That Look application.

Two hours later, a whiny-voiced woman calls to inform me that I've been granted a $7,000 line of cosmetic surgery credit! Hot damn!

"OK, now the doctor we selected for you is excellent," she says. "His name is Dr. Seys. It's spelled S-U-E-S-S."

"S-U-E-S-S? Dr. Suess?"

"Well, it's not pronounced Suess," she says.

This story writes itself! The discount cosmetic surgery people want me to go see ... Dr. Suess! A question forms in my mind: Will he cut me with a knife? Will he go and tell his wife? I quickly brush it aside. Anyway, I'll soon find out, since I've been granted a complimentary consultation valued at $250. Additionally, I've been entered into That Look's monthly drawing for a free breast, liposuction or nose procedure. I don't need any of these, but hell, if I win I would most certainly take advantage of their generosity.

Walking to the bathroom mirror, I stare deeply at my face. What would I change about it if I could? I draw a blank -- and then it occurs to me that my unstable and borderline psychotic alter-ego might be interested in a very large, plush and cushiony new forehead.

Time to go shopping for my new face! Having duly internalized the low self-esteem encouraged by That Look's literature, I hide my face from the world. I decide to wear a hood. (OK, well, not exactly a hood, but a wool cap worn very low on my head.) I've adopted the pseudonym "John Merrick."

I meet Dr. Suess at his pristine San Francisco medical office. Sadly, he isn't dressed like the Cat in the Hat; he's dressed more like a middle-aged doctor. I sit, head lowered, on his examination table.

"I'm not sure what I need done, so I wanted to see what you recommend." I crane my neck and stick out my face.

"Well, what do you want to get done?" he asks dryly.

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