Nan Darien

Mad about that prestigious Poughkeepsie academy! Vassar considers endowing a chair in Nan studies

summer chained to my beach tc^vel: it would be so much easier if I could just merge all my liver spots into a tan. But this tiny, tiny flare-up of self-involvement disappeared the moment I learned that Oprah Winfrey—as Keanu Reeves and Madonna have been, too—was the topic of a college course (“History 298: Oprah Winfrey, the Tycoon” at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign). It took about three seconds for my brain to flash, “If these people are worthy of the academy, why not me?” What a boon it would be to have a college course about, or perhaps guest-starring, me; you know, the socialite/publicintellectual axis is such a difficult one to negotiate. (Thank God for Edmund Wilson, though: proof that you shouldn’t underestimate someone just because his nickname is Bunny.)

So I faxed my alma mater, Vassar, a course description: “Understanding Nan Darien. Six credits. A multi-disciplinary look at the noted Park Avenue socialite and Vanity Fair columnist, with special emphasis on her conservancy of the python, so decimated by designers during the fall 2000 season. Students will be taught how to make uncharitable comments about those not immediately present, and also to pace themselves when dining at Alain Ducasse. In a special module called ‘Resort Studies,’ the instructor will address the topic of why so many of our best resorts are riddled with unattached Greek men, and will deliver the keynote lecture, ‘The Thong: Why?”’

Vassar called back and said, Very interesting, very interesting, but a mite “elitist,” and added that I’m somewhat of a “throwback.” I was a little miffed. You know, when I was a lass in Poughkeepsie,

we didn’t have all this Gender Studies and Women’s Feelings and Deconstructing Donald Duck stuff; you shaved your legs and got on with it. I was also upset by Vassar’s lukewarm response because, well, frankly, look at the competition; if Keanu Reeves is a college course, then I’m the Oxford English Dictionary.

However, not wanting to squander my shot at immortality within the groves of academe, I faxed Vassar back a letter suggesting some concessions: have a lesbian of color talk to the class about my interactions with various locals during my trips to St. Barts; bring in a menu from Jean-Georges (my bible) and deconstruct it; fly in Andre Leon Talley to discuss the new pant. Two weeks later they called back to say, essentially, No thank you, but are you interested in setting up a fund for the theater department’s costume closet? “Darling,” I informed the young man, “I’m trying to tell the world I’m Mary McCarthy, not Thelma Ritter.”

You know, so many of my friends spent last winter feeling haggard and neglected for not being included in that field guide to New York society, Bright Young Things, but frankly, I was much more devastated about not being included in The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism, which came out this June. After all, have I not single-handedly raised the level of discourse in this magazine? You can have your Dame Edna and her double entendres and her sailor-strength potty mouth, but when it comes to cogent social commentary and searing political jeremiads ... hello?

So, I must persevere. I must keep fighting. As the ethnics say, “La lucha continua.”