A friend suggested I write a column about my father's choice of reading material. In college, Dad majored in journalism. He had an insurance adjusting business when I was young and later, attended law school and opened his own practice. Dad read the daily newspapers and the Wall Street Journal, but he also subscribed to The National Enquirer. What intrigued my friend is that Dad once gave all of us, his grownup children, subscriptions to The National Enquirer, the supermarket newspaper one of my sisters called a "rag." (That didn't stop her from reading it religiously, though.) I would like to blame Dad for my fixation on celebrity gossip. However, I began reading movie star magazines when I was in the third grade. Photoplay, Movie World, Modern Screen—my friends borrowed their older sisters' copies and we gathered at each others' homes to read about our favorite stars. We all wanted to grow up and look like Janet Leigh, Debbie Reynolds and Elizabeth Taylor. (Until she stole Debbie's hubby, that is.). We practiced primping and mugging it up for the camera. We bobby-pinned each others' hair into glamour girl styles. Twenty years later, when the first issue of People magazine was published, I couldn't wait to get my hands on the premier issue. At the time, I was a Brownie leader in New Jersey. Those second grade girls, their craft projects and field trips wore me out. Every Wednesday afternoon, I collapsed onto the living room couch, unable to even think of fixing dinner. My husband and I struck a deal: on Brownie days, he would pick up dinner at the local delicatessen. In March of 1974, as my year of service as a scout leader began winding down, People magazine came out. I discovered it was the perfect antidote for even the harshest Brownie-induced headache. From then on, a copy of the latest People came home every Wednesday with the potato salad and corned beef sandwiches. Since then, I have never missed an issue. People contains more than just the latest dirt. Between its covers are a number of human interest stories, too—good conversation starters for parties and other occasions that require small talk. But the truth is: I read it for the celebrity scuttlebutt. Even though the inside scoop is now about a much-too-young population of famous nobodies like Lindsay, Paris and Britney, who don't hold a candle to Janet, Debbie or Liz, I still purchase my favorite tattler every week. I can even tell you which store in our town has the new issue a day earlier than others. Lately, weekly doses of tawdry tales aren't enough. My sister introduced me to a Web site that dishes to the star-struck on a daily basis. I often wonder what my father, who passed away before up-to-the-minute news and schmooze became available via the Internet, would think of this sleazy gossip spot that I swear off every evening, then check out "one last time" every morning .I hope this doesn't create a scandal, but if I know Dad, he'd save it as one of his Favorites. Dad understood the value of diversion versus the dose of reality found in the daily newspapers.