Tyler Brule in his perfectly-appointed loft apartment in Hell.
As I'm writing this, I'm sort-of watching a documentary on Sunday about *wallpaper founder Tyler Brule. I'd been a fan of the magazine for a few years in the late '90s, when I was obsessed with living the glamorous life. This was the height of the cocktail nation scene and my roommate and I had done over our apartment as something like a space-age bachelor pad, complete with a fully stocked bar, coke mirror and Nina Simone posters. We had barely any money, but in the 90s in D.C., with a few connections and a lot of imagination, you could live pretty glamorously.
The point is, back then I would have totally worshipped Brule if I had known who he was. But watching Tyler Brule: My Life, my fantasy is totally ruined. The entire film is Brule speaking extemporaneously and revealing what an arrogant, deluded jackass he is.
Apparently, he had some sort of epiphany while covering the war in Afghanistan (the pre-9/11 one, that is) as a news reporter for the BBC. His convoy was shot at by rebels and Brule suffered serious injuries (translation: a bullet grazed his arm.)
"Ultimately, I think Afghanistan was a good thing," he says to the camera, "because it made me a better person." So, basically, it's "Screw the victims of this senseless feud, I just had a great idea for an overpriced bathroom read!"
It turns out 36-year-old Brule (which he pronounces Bru-LEY, but you just know everyone else in his family pronounces BROOL) is both Canadian AND gay-—and I can't help but think he's trying to overcompensate for these two strikes by being as effete and elitist as humanly possible. Its like Martha Stewart reincarnated as Addison DeWitt.
Now, don't get me wrong—I'm a lifestyle journalist myself and can be pretty damn shallow at times, but I don't run around belittling the 'little' people or acting like I'm following some higher calling. Brule is the kind of over-mannered, self-important hew-mo-seks-yew-al who uses phrases like "etcetera, etcetera," "if you will," and "one" instead of "you," (as in "one can never have enough hats, gloves and shoes").
Here's another Brulism I just overheard: "I would describe a simple experience as not having to drive around London when I can have someone do it for me, who is a professional, in a Mercedes S-Class sedan." Yes, I was just telling that to the Rothschilds yesterday over caipirinhas at Soho House.
Oh Jesus, he just pronounced Glamour magazine Gla-moooor. Somebody needs to put him down.