The mere idea of a buzzy column, chockablock with notables and quotables, is almost unfathomable in this age, when the rich, the famous and even anyone fame-adjacent, have their own publishing platforms and give it all away up front free. We’re swimming in a sea of overexposed nobodies. Their every lived moment is in your face on Instagram and they have little use for the press. Anemic magazines bend over backward to get stars, allowing them to do interviews with one another.
“You have to speak to their team,” Ms. Adams said. “In the old days, you could speak to Clark Gable. You had his phone number. Now they have a team. The whole team is 17 years old, if that. The team doesn’t know who the hell you are because they’re 11 years old.”
Still, she said, “There’s always gossip. Down in the old days at the riverbed, the ladies washing clothes in the river, they talked. The hieroglyphics of the Egyptians. It’s always been that way.”
Offering up the ne plus ultra of overexposure, Bennifer 2.0, Ms. Adams said: “They tweeze their chin, it’s in the paper. It doesn’t matter. They have several P.R. people. Several.” She joked that the famous parts of J-Lo’s anatomy have their own P.R. agents, too. “What is the point of writing about them when they’re sending their own stuff to you?” she said of the current crop.
She fretted about the state of her magpie craft. “My feeling about gossip is, it’s gone so low and so down,” she said, “soon, they’re going to have a camera in the bottom of a toilet bowl, shooting up.”
Ms. Adams was never Gawker. “I never outed anybody,” she said. “I never said somebody was sleeping with somebody if they were married. I didn’t do dirt.”