Which covert film of which Andre Leon Talley overshared obsession do you think would get more views on YouTube?

His Hugeness sweating bullets on the rowing machine? (To the soundtrack of his fascist trainer screaming, “You’re a pussy! You’re a pussy!”)

Or! An emotional-eating binge? (To the soundtrack of A-Dubs screaming, “You’re a pussy! You’re a pussy!”)

What could be more apocalyptic than the mainstreaming of neck tats? Now, don’t get me wrong: I love super-crisp, hi-def tattoos, and I love talking with owners of such tats about their tats (note to readers: most inky strangers love inquisitive, conventional types). But, neck tats! Getting the cautious imprimatur of The Times’ Guy Trebay! This is a major oy vay moment. Forgetting their gang connotations, neck tats don’t work on an aesthetic level either. Unadorned, there is already so much movement in that area — the face, the tendons of the neck, shifting necklines — that adding a permanent, static element messes with the natural flow of things. It’s too busy. So, just imagine wrinkles in the mix. Yeesh. Could neck-tatters be the next big Botox market?