Vanity Fair's Obsession with Me is Unhinged but Flattering
"Envy is a Declaration of Inferiority”
— Napoleon Bonaparte
Thank You
For reading the first part of my Depp-Heard trial anniversary recap. I ended at Kate, but I’ll have the second half—a dizzying Virginia conclusion—for you soon. So keep an eye out for that.
In Other News
Vanity Fair has developed a weird new obsession with me. If the writing weren’t so clumsy, I might actually be offended. At this point, it’s practically a serialized feature, with my name landing in a headline about once a month. Kase Wickman appears to have been formally assigned to the House Inhabit beat, documenting my every move, comment, and perceived misstep. Unfortunately, she lacks strength in prose.
The snark is almost charming in its desperation. Kase teeters between satirical prodding and outright ridicule, but more often lands somewhere closer to juvenile journalism-class jealousy. It’s giving high school girl not invited to the dance. She’s mad when I cover politics; mad when I don’t. She seems bothered that my work spans both D.C. and Hollywood—kind of like Vanity Fair, but governed by my own whim, a perk of independent coverage.
She’s mad I’m covering the Kohberger case, though I’ve tracked it from the beginning. My reading the Bible seems to irritate her, too (though I imagine that’s because MSM prefers we all assume a godless existence).
Still, I appreciate the attention. Free advertisement, I suppose? Personally, when I find someone irrelevant or uninspired, I stop thinking about them entirely. Instead, I’ve been granted a recurring column.
If I’m truly such a baffling, bumbling, uncredentialed hack, why is everything I do or say worthy of a full-length write-up? Why the fixation, if not to remind their shrinking readership how much I should not be trusted?
Let’s be honest—whoever’s left of the Vanity Fair diehards probably isn’t reading here anyway.
VF says…
“Well, we can’t say that Jessica Reed Kraus doesn’t keep us guessing. Is she a journalist? A blogger? A busy mom with a passion for negging women who accuse men of sexual abuse? Dedicated #spon poster for colostrum powder? A conservative PAC staffer, or—wait, was that a member of the White House press corps?
- The identity that Kraus Inhabits seems to depends on the angle of the sun and whether Robert F. Kennedy Jr. is acknowledging her that day, but in a slew of Instagram Stories throughout the weekend, Kraus revealed that she’s heading to Idaho in August to “report” on the trial of Bryan Kohberger, who stands accused of murdering four University of Idaho students in 2022, as only she can. (A judge entered a not-guilty plea on Kohberger's behalf.) The trial begins in Moscow, Idaho, on August 11.”
“Her daily barrage of social media posts is an ever-rotating sampler platter of a very specific Weird Internet cuisine: Recently, she's started reading the Bible, and has suggested that she start a “HIH Bible Study.” She spent a few days on a military boat during Fleet Week, where former press secretary Sean Spicer posted multiple photos of her just…horizontal on the deck. Chillin’”
One recent piece breathlessly recapped Laura Loomer’s profanity-laced rant, where she called me a “cunt” multiple times. I found it lowbrow and trashy. Vanity Fair deemed it “newsworthy.” Another mocked my White House invitation. The latest reads like an invested Reddit troll providing a detailed rundown of my life—on and off screen—where jokes and sarcasm are clipped, run through Kase’s humorless spin, and deployed to demean me. It stops just short of carving bitch into the side of my sedan.
Everything I say is placed in “quotes,” to underscore how unserious, how out of my league I am in this sacred circle of supposedly more deserving journalists. You know, like Kase, who clocks in at “official” offices owned by legacy outlets and sits in designated cubicles, drafting new ways to please her editors by insulting a working mother of four who happens to be thriving.
For writers like her—still clinging to the sinking wreckage of prestige media—there’s no greater offense than someone from the outside stepping in to fill the void Vanity Fair left behind after they went woke and lost their edge. That’s what happens when you trade sharp reporting people used to talk about for Pfizer promos and recycled hit pieces on Trump.
Of course you hate the one having more fun, writing the stories you’re no longer allowed to. Please—VF, tell us again how doomed we are under MAGA rule. How scared and ashamed we should be. Remind us how out of touch you are with the vast majority of the country by mocking conservative allure.
Since the fascination seems so consuming, I figured I’d do Kase a favor and summarize the last few weeks of my “journey.”
Consider it a gesture of generosity—a head start on her next installment of Where in the World Is Jessica Reed Kraus?
“Every damn thing is your own fault, if you are any good.” –Ernest Hemingway
In the World of HIH…
Since being inducted as part of New Media, I’ve been to the White House approximately seven times. I’m actually headed back next week. Currently, I average D.C. twice a month, though I’ll be less involved this summer because of family vacations and a murder trial in August.
Reasons for my visits have ranged from a briefing with administration heads, to an Oval Office invitation by the President, to covering the First Lady at the Take It Down Act presser, to the annual Easter Egg Roll with my youngest son—who paused for a Polaroid in front of the big white pillars—to a front row seat at a press briefing featuring Pam Bondi announcing the largest drug bust in U.S. history, to a women’s luncheon celebrating honorees of achievement, to last month’s conference unveiling the MAHA report.
In Addition to WH jaunts I Have:
Stood and watched in awe one Friday morning as the President’s helicopter lifted off.
Helped my middle son study for his learner’s permit (he passed).
Helped my oldest finalize a recipe for his culinary exam.
Snooped around the West Wing on two separate occasions with a child’s grin on my face.
Went bike riding in Central Park with my oldest.
Complimented Speaker Mike Johnson on his shoes in the hallway.
Caught a late-night Uber to a MAHA afterparty and sang Madonna in the car with Marla Maples.
Toured HHS to document RFK’s collection of vintage flags, where his antique dealer was delighted to contribute.
Interrupted spring break with my family in New York to catch a train to D.C. and attend an intimate roundtable with Benjamin Netanyahu at the Blair House, animated protesters surrounding the entrance.
Celebrated the rise of independent journalism during a long WHCD weekend, where I wore a white suit and red tie and party-hopped too many times to count.
Hugged Michael Cohen. Tina Brown. Vicky Ward. Taylor Lorenz.
Witnessed the debut of The Executive at the Occidental.
Interviewed protestors on a corner block on the PCH calling Trump a dictator and demanding an end to oligarch rule on my walk home from work.
Renovated my dream office overlooking the Pacific, with breathtaking views of locally loved surf breaks my boys appreciate.
Blocked too many people to count.
Posed awkwardly for photographers/interviewed awkwardly for pairing profile.
Watched my husband build a custom bar in my office, a new bathroom in our house, source a vintage electric car for me to drive around this summer, lock a love bracelet on my wrist for Mother’s Day, cook cast iron steaks for our family, surf with friends on foreign shores, power wash the deck, and extend the confines of a custom shingled hut to suit my family of bunnies—because I told him they deserve it.
Discussed scripture with David Harris Jr. on a late-night street corner.
Discussed Psalms with pardon czar Alice Johnson at the Waldorf.
Made Lynne Patton take too many photos.
Complimented Oliver Stone on sunglasses that were just slightly too small.
Attended a Mother’s Day pickleball tournament with school moms at a friend’s ranch.
Brunched at the Bowery while people watching with my best friend.
Thanked God—out loud one night—for shedding dark forces from my path.
Transcribed several calls from desperate inmates.
Took secret calls from known and notable sources.
Published about one article a day.
Took a test to determine my human design chart.
Cried writing my son’s yearbook sentiments.
Cried again because I was scared and exhausted from back-to-back turbulent flights to and from the east coast.
Laughed with Savannah Chrisley in cars, at happy hour, at galas, and anywhere else I found her radiating joy.
Celebrated Tulsi Gabbard’s confirmation at a sweet senator’s home, where her mother’s homemade lasagna was served to an intimate group.
Lunched in a pink dining room with Meghan McCain, Danica Patrick, and Sage Steele.
Was introduced to Pam Bondi’s adoring husband, who carved steak for the fajitas before heading out.
Listened to how sweetly the President speaks to family members on voicemails he doesn’t know “reporters” will hear.
Went to yoga. Twice.
Took too many phone calls to count.
Found a stranger pacing around my office while I was out for a walk.
Made new friends in the press briefing room—one of them from CNN.
Listened to foreign strangers on the train argue about tariffs.
Inquired about an orgasm cult on trial that I’m heading to next week.
Sat in wonder—twice—watching the landscape blur past me from a train window between New York and D.C., with young Dylan playing in my headphones.
Caught too many flights to count.
Complimented a French dignitary’s wife on her Celine handbag.
Helped my youngest son stock a Valentine’s basket for his fifth-grade crush.
Planned a pizza party for his 11th birthday.
Read most of Keith McNally’s memoir.
Flew my oldest son home to cook for friends and family.
Curated a gift bag for a teacher I adore.
Napped in the sun.
Listened to Hemingway’s prose about war on audio.
Watched the clouds from atop a Navy warship moving across the Atlantic, where I spent four days to learn and write about our Navy. Cried when I saw how young they all are. Cried again when we pulled into the New York port with them lining the ship in white uniform under rain clouds, the city backdrop circling us.
Drove my kids to friends’ houses for drop-offs more times than I can count.
Scolded them for spending too much money on junk food at the liquor store.
Picked up new art for my office—where I sit and write, and daydream, and take calls, and answer the door, and welcome strangers when they knock, and take pictures when they ask, and cut apples for my youngest, and drink coffee sprinkled with collagen, and post news updates on my phone, and organize articles, and edit old drafts, and consider the timing of each—all while pondering the meaning of life, and watching (amused) live updates from the Oval Office while putting memes to music.
Cleaned out my entire closet—shedding anything I hadn’t worn in a year. It felt amazing.
Watched Sirens, Friends and Neighbors, and too many documentaries to count.
Waited on God to see if I can secure an inn to his afterparty.
Worked hard. Wrote a lot. Slept little. Steeped in gratitude. Powered by passion.
No wonder they are obsessed with you, you are having way too much fun!
I’m jealous! 😜 but I’m over here rooting for you and cheering you on!
And I can’t recall the last time I picked up a vanity, fair, or even looked at their Instagram lol