WHY WERE ROWS of folding chairs set up for budding author Nicole Richie's Nov. 16 book signing at the Borders by Union Square? The answer was provided by the fans at this free-for-all: Seats make mighty good pedestals for taking dozens of pics of little Miss Richie. If I emerged from this event with any insight, it's that I need a better digital camera to truly capture history as it happens and share it with the public – dear readers, feel free to send me expensive gadgetry.

But back to the show. Rows of chairs to the contrary, Richie did not read from her roman à clef, which has a pair of covers, one ballet-themed (read: innocent), the other morning-after glamorous (read: trashy). Instead, dwarfed by an enormous black hat, the cute author signed books with a silver pen and posed for at least 200 pictures in addition to the thousands of candids that were snapped by an increasingly anxious crowd primarily composed of teens and queens. One fan who qualified as both grew increasingly hissy and threatened to "body slam" the people around him, until one of Richie's entourage read him the riot act for having the gall to ask for her autograph without having bought a copy of The Truth about Diamonds (ReganBooks).

Ah, yes. The book. This is a work of fiction, but of course, some more-than-coincidental resemblance can be detected when one runs through the gallery of characters. Take evil and vacuous heiress Simone, who loses a cell phone containing hundreds of famous people's phone numbers and "an adult bookstore's worth of topless self-portraits." Richie doesn't miss an opportunity to wax moralistic about a character who seems an awful lot like a former costar, nor does she pass up an opportunity to crack a dozen or so jokes at her expense. Remember, Richie was the funny one on The Simple Life, and if she ain't a born novelist, she still has a Jackie Susann sense of humor. As for me, well, I still love Paris in the springtime and Paris in the fall, but the same way I love fried coconut ice cream – a little bit every month or two is more than enough.

Does that make you hungry? Feast on this: In regard to the wasting disease that seems to be striking all the young female red carpet racers of the moment, an insight can be found on page 45, where Richie's narrator – a girl named Nicole Richie – describes a typical lunch at the Ivy: "Our appetizers were cleared virtually untouched, and three matching salads appeared in their place."

Bret Easton Ellis should be jealous of Richie's up-to-the-moment pop-cult referencing abilities – only a few pages in, she's already using Kanye West's "Gold Digger" as the sonic backdrop for some intrigue. Of course, the song is spun by DJ Ray, "a candidate for the nicest guy ever" – and a former Whopper addict who closely resembles Richie's real-life husband-to-be, DJ AM. (Johnny Ray Huston)

Richie, rich

This is why I dig Nicole Richie: Unlike most of the tabloid-bait babes in current circulation, she seems to be in on the joke. Sure, The Truth about Diamonds is loaded with nearly as many glossy photos as Paris Hilton' Confessions of an Heiress: A Tongue-in-Chic Peek behind the Pose – not to be confused with that tome's follow-up, Your Heiress Diary: Confess It All to Me, or, for that matter, Lindsay Lohan's latest single, "Confessions of a Broken Heart (Daughter to Father)." But look closer, and you'll see that Richie has more poise than the average poser – even the carved-from-plastic Ryan Seacrest, sitting in behind the desk on Larry King Live, looked more than a little intimidated when he interviewed her recently.

Richie's innate ability to command the spotlight probably comes from watching her pops (legend says he wrote "Ballerina Girl" for her; see the photo spread in Diamonds for Nic in full dance attire). She did hitch her star to Hilton's chariot, at least in the beginning – like, who'd heard of her before The Simple Life, beyond anyone who'd seen her name in the spawn-of-celebs police blotter? Now that she and Hilton are as over as Brad and Jen, Richie's managed to become respectable on her own terms. She owned The Simple Life; she's engaged to another demiceleb, with what seem like more than superficial intentions (oh, Paris and Paris, we barely knew ye); she doesn't menace late-night McDonald's employees; her movie debut (Kids in America) didn't involve night-vision blow jobs; and, now that Lohan and the Olsens caved in by adding a few ounces to their famous figures, she's the last woman standing in Tiny Town. Oh, all right – that last one's not a positive point. Only haters give Richie a hard time about her oh-so-glamorous weight loss. As for the rest of us, we can't wait to see what she does next. Bring on the debut album! (Cheryl Eddy)

Laguna beached

We all still love Seth Cohen, but let's face it: Somewhere between seasons two and three, The O.C. lost its gleam. Blame the ridonkulous plot machinations or the overexposure (did we really need a CD from would-be soul man Peter Gallagher?), but it seems increasingly certain that Newport's finest won't be matching the 10-year reign of the brats from Beverly Hills, 90210. The same might not be true for MTV's copycat "reality" show, Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County, which just capped its second season (and announced plans for a third, as well as a spin-off set in Los Angeles).

The mansions, names, and glorious scenery may be authentic, but the prodigious conflicts on Laguna Beach are blatantly – well, if not manufactured, then at least sculpted in a Truman Show kind of way. Laguna Beach transpires in an alternate universe filled with immaculate blow-outs, no homework or parental interference or jobs (except cool ones, like working at a surf shop) – and most important, endless heart-to-heart talks perfectly calibrated for the cameras. (It also features a cameo by a suspiciously glam San Francisco, or "San Fran," per the show's Harry and Sally, Stephen and LC). Throughout, all action is backed with the kind of emotional music that allows the viewer to commiserate with, say, a playa who's sooo bummed that he just kissed his ex-girlfriend in front of his current girlfriend. I'm sad for you, dude, and so are the Backstreet Boys.

Watch enough of this, and you, too, will be gripped by a Laguna Beach addiction so powerful you cackle with delight at seeing the show's Talan cited in the same gossip item as Kimberly Stewart, or the cast members splashed across the pages of US Weekly. In light of The Real World's downward spiral into predictability (memo to MTV: You have a problem when a cast member getting arrested is, like, totally boring), we can give thanks, because we know MTV will milk its Laguna breakouts for all they're worth. And then some. (Eddy)