A Quick Note on Identity Theft

Life, as we all know, is a game of inches. A G here, a J there... before you know it, you're somebody else.

I bring this up upon learning that the name of fading-supermodel Naomi Campbell's publicist is Jeff Raymond. Just last week he was quoted in the Times thusly:

" 'They are friends, and they work together on a lot of projects,' Mr. Raymond said."

First of all, I can promise you that I, if quoted on behalf of one of my clients during the days when such things actually occurred, would have come up with something more interesting than that.

Also, what kind of client is Naomi Campbell? My old, now-dead friend John Bailey used to tell me that the only account at Bursen Marsteller from which one could ask to be excused from duty was Philip Morris. The theory being that one should be able to enjoy a pint of beer without the lingering notion that it had been paid for by money wrenched from the cold, clenched fists of tobacco addicts, wheezing and gagging their last breaths.

On a connected note, this is why (plus some onorously elitist admissions criteria) I chose not to apply to Duke University.

Anyway, beyond the tobacco industry, it's hard to imagine working for someone as distasteful as the anger-challenged Miss Campbell. People who believe that being angry entitles them to do or say whatever they want, regardless of consequences, make me angry.

In the interest of fairness, I'm sure there are things I do that annoy other people, but this is The Year of Magical Painting. Let them get their own blog.

Anyway, the next time you hear that I said something about something (at an exclusive cocktail party, say, on the roof of the Soho House) don't automatically assume it really was me.