Earlier this year, England’s attorney general accused the magazine publisher Condé Nast of interfering with the 2013 News of the World phone-hacking trial by permitting British GQ to publish a courtroom report—excerpted here—by the American media columnist Michael Wolff. The charges were brazenly contemptuous of press freedom, but as we noted at the time, they apparently inspired Condé to erase nearly every trace of Wolff’s column from the internet. Today, the Lord Chief Justice of London’s High Court of Justice ruled against Condé in an eleven-page decision, holding the publisher in contempt of court:
Every November, media types, ourselves included, trot out the trope that spending time with family during Thanksgiving is necessarily a difficult thing. Your sister is hateful, your uncles are racist, your nana's candied yams are a brutal, sunset-hued chore to be endured. Today, we meet the saddest victim of these holiday communication breakdowns: a poor soul whose excellent taste in footwear left him unable to bond with the people he cherished most.
Matthew McConaughey, actor, chest-thumper, and true detective, has done some serious ethical calculus regarding the name of Washington D.C.'s football team. And after weighing the history of "redskin" as an ethnic slur against the "little bit of fire and some oomph" the team's emblem brings, he's made his final decision: The name stands.
Kanye West—deity, designer, rapper, producer, Chicagoan, husband, father, cousin, child, genius™, egotist, prophet, kilt fan, mean-mugger, and anti-college education advocate—was interviewed by GQ staff writer Zach Baron for a recently-released cover story in the magazine where collectors of quarters through U.S. history can trade old-timey currency. Also tits.
As part of its Where to Take Her in 2014 package, GQ suggested taking your girlfriend or wife to Big Sur, among other places. Accompanying the spread, with the caption "An uplifting morning in Big Sur," is a picture of a model, full boob hanging out, in her pajamas. Not exactly safe-for-work material, GQ.
Last week, rapper Kendrick Lamar was honored among GQ's elite in the magazine's Men of the Year issue. But Lamar's label boss didn't want the honor: Anthony "Top Dawg" Tiffith, who represents Top Dawg Entertainment, unceremoniously pulled his artist from the party that accompanied the issue, calling out writer Steve Marsh's profile, "Kendrick Lamar: Rapper of the Year," for its "racial overtones."
Last spring, after a ricin-tainted letter was sent to President Obama, the FBI arrested Paul Kevin Curtis, an Elvis impersonator and Prince super-fan from Mississippi, on suspicion of mailing the poison correspondence. But then a week later, charges against Curtis were dropped and soon another Mississippi musician was taken into custody, Tae Kwon Do instructor J. Everett Dutschke, who turned out to be Curtis's bitter rival. In the October issue of GQ, author/writer Wells Tower digs into the feud and the whole thing gets weirder—so so so much weirder.
When one invites Russell Brand to an awards ceremony, one should expect to have their sponsor's Nazi ties rehashed in public by Russell Brand.
GQ's August cover story on Breaking Bad star Bryan Cranston isn't terribly revealing in the way you'd probably want it to be (i.e. virtually nothing is reported on the storyline of the upcoming final batch of Bad episodes). However, it does take a brutally honest turn when Cranston admits to relating to his morally threadbare character Walter White. Emphasis is on the brutal.
GQ has published an amazing interview with comedian/smirking beet Ricky Gervais, in which writer Chris Heath calls him on his arrogant shit, Gervais faintly protests and then backs right into confirming the accusations of assholery anyway. This happens again and again. If self-awareness is the string, Gervais is a yo-yo.
Chris Heath warns you up high in his GQ cover story on Robert Downey Jr., that: "Conversations with Robert Downey Jr. are rarely linear, and sometimes it takes a moment to realize how one thing might relate to the next." Yes, this seems to be the perfect way to set up the inscrutable parallel the actor draws to overly emotional acting and bestiality porn (not that he's watched it, he's just seen it being sold in Amsterdam...). Here is the powerful exchange:
Buzz Bissinger is having a sexual midlife crisis. The Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Friday Night Lights stopped having sex with his wife "several years ago," he writes, and "began to wonder about sex and sexuality and where exactly I fit in in the complex spectrum." He started experimenting with sex with men, in being a "dominant leather master," in cross-dressing, in sex clubs. And he spent $600,000 on clothes that make him look like a Russian music producer.