Good grief. Someone tell me when David Granger finally gets shit-canned, 'cos that's the Esquire issue I want to buy.
Update: the culprit behind this puff-piece is Tom Junod, a writer who ought to know better. Indeed, he almost certainly does know better. One possible, albeit exceedingly generous, interpretation of what's just happened: Junod and Granger are deliberately driving a stake through the absent heart of the celebrity profile.
Or not. Look, I'm not the only guy who's noted that the last 30 years have not been kind to Esquire — or is it the other way around? If you want some evidence of just how abysmally far this "men's magazine" has fallen, go to your favourite on-line used book emporium and plonk down some change on Smiling Through The Apocalypse: Esquire's History Of The Sixties. Pick a random page from that collection, then read it and ask yourself, "When's the last time Esquire published anything nearly this good?"
Or just head for the cover archive and scroll through the 60s. Do you think there's any chance this men's magazine can ever re-grow a pair big enough to put on a cover like this one from 1966?