Archive - June 2006


O! Shut up!

            My wife gets O! (I think it has an exclamation point).  You know, Oprah’s magazine.  I don’t know why, so don’t ask.  I can only assume it’s because she has an addiction to full page, glossy advertising.  Because with O!, that’s what you get.  The average edition of O! is 300 pages long.  283 of those pages are advertising, mostly clothes that Oprah wouldn’t fit into, so I don’t get that, really.  Of the remaining 17 pages, six of those are “Isn’t Oprah Grand!?!”  Or, if you’re a little bit more bitter (like I am), it’s more, “How many people would you kill to live like Oprah?”

            So we’re down to eleven.  Three are Dr. Phil.  I’ll pause while you vomit.

            Are we good?  Okay.

            Eight to go.  There’s some money advice, and crap on manners.  Then the obligatory celebrity interview.  Though, in some cases, the word celebrity is a bit of a stretch.  We’re talking people that David Hasselfhoff would get top billing over.  And he lost top billing to a car.  A Trans Am, no less.

            The celebrity interview is, as they all are, innocuous enough to put a hyperactive kid on crystal meth to sleep.  The only good part is when they talk about what’s on their bookshelves.  And by “good,” I mean laughably ridiculous.

            I started paying attention to this a while back, and, I mean, come on Hollywood, we’re not stupid.

            Most lists go something like this:

            - Tolstoy – Pick a lesser known work.

            - Anything by Steinbeck.

            - Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.

            - To Kill a Mockingbird.

            - A short story collection by either Hemingway, Twain, or Faulkner.  (You may substitute with a book of poems, Emerson only).

            In short, everyone in Hollywood likes to snuggle down at night and pick a book from their 11th grade literature class.  They just adore books that no other American would ever read without being forced to.

            Puh-fucking-lease.

            And it’s not just self-absorbed Hollywood types either.  Anyone, famous or otherwise, being interviewed about it suffers the same delusion.

            “Me?  Oh, well, I just loved The Jungle by Upton Sinclair.”

            No.  You didn’t.  And on the off chance that you did read it, you were 100 pages in and still wondering where the monkeys were.

            According to the latest statistics, every person on the Earth bought 3.2 copies of the last Harry Potter book.  And yet, I’m the only one who’s read it. 

You want to know my favorite book?  Lamb, by Christopher Moore.  Why?  Because that guy is funny.

            Hey, I’ve got an idea, Mr. Hot Shot Actor.  If you want to impress us, quit making shitty movies.  But don’t come at us fresh from the set of “Caddyshack 5: The Gopher Strikes Back” and try to sell us the idea that you’re an introspective soul, seeking enlightenment in the pages of great literature.

            Quit being so pretentious.  You play make believe for a living.  You’ve read Harry Potter, all of them, and probably had to go to the dictionary a few times.  It’s okay.  We really don’t care.


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