I promise not to kill you in your sleep
September 5, 2007 - 5:29 PM
My guiltiest pleasure is true crime books penned by
Anne Rule. The pleasure I derive from these tales of sociopaths and murderers is not guilty because I enjoy them ironically or because I think they're poorly written. It's guilty because I'm afraid that people are going to think I'm a fucking psycho. When I told a friend that I had read Helter Skelter three times, he was genuinely freaked out. "You probably shouldn't go around telling people that," he said, backing away from me slowly.
I like these books not because I'm plotting to start killing puppies or whatever. I read them because I like to delve into the psyche of the truly disturbed. Not the mere fucked-up -- I can go to a shrink or listen to my friends bitch if I want to hear about mundane craziness. I'm talking about straight up people eating batshit insanity.
The growing stack of true crime books next to my side of the bed, though, probably has my boyfriend sleeping with one eye open. I swear I won't stab you, honey. At least not while you're unconscious.
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September 1, 2007 - 10:32 AM
Some new freelance work that's keeping mama in peanut butter and rent payments.
Looking Creepy in the Post:
Air Out Your Problems
Getting Academic in the Times:
Before Lindsay or Paris, There Was Mrs. L_fle
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I liked her better when she was on coke
August 18, 2007 - 10:52 AM
I just finished Anne Lamott's Blue Shoe, a novel about a frazzled, god-fearing divorcee in Marin County named Mattie (Lamott is a frazzled, god-fearing single mother in Marin County -- the heroine is clearly her surrogate).
I read it to completion because I like Lamott's writing -- it's fluid and easy without feeling lazy. But after the last page, I was totally infuriated at myself for actually finishing it. Nothing. Happens. She writes pages-long reveries about a pet iguana. And then there's the God stuff. Lamott can't go more than a couple paragraphs without mentioning prayer or church or asking God for guidance. For a heathen like myself, it's off-putting and a complete snooze.
Anyone familiar with Lamott's personal history knows that she used to have a cocaine problem. I think she credits her turbulent past for leading her into church. I will quote my favorite writing teacher ever, Ann Bauer, on this one. We were talking about Lamott's writing in class once, and Ann said, "I know this isn't nice to say, but I liked her so much better when she was on coke and before she found Jesus."
Amen, sister.
Also, she's a white lady with dreads, and I just can't abide that post-hippie shit.
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July 30, 2007 - 7:34 PM
In this summer of my discontent, I've been reading semi-trashy biographies of famous consorts. I just finished The Diana Chronicles, and I recently started on A Woman Named Jackie.
What is striking about these two women was the ice-cold manipulation they both employed to get what they wanted. Both Diana and Jackie were heralded by the public as fashion icons, long-suffering spouses, and women to emulate. It's beyond obvious to point out that they only became famous because of whom they married, but both women actively courted the limelight, only to later complain about its harsh glare.
I guess the most frustrating thing is that these women are held up as tragic figures, and really, they're just attractive, wealthy women who had some terrible luck.
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July 23, 2007 - 9:20 PM
So I succumbed to the hype and bought The Diana Chronicles. This is precisely the kind of shit I love -- gossipy non-fiction about the uber wealthy and/or incredibly fabulous (see Marion Meade's fantastic biography of Dorothy Parker What Fresh Hell is This? and anything about the sisters Mitford).
I'm about half way through it, and I can't help but notice that Tina Brown writes like she's the Perez Hilton of the royal set. She keeps describing Prince Charles's early conquests as "hotties" and when she's talking about the semi-recent history of the royal family, she references Queen Anne by writing "Queen Anne (probably gay)." That's some dlisted shit right there -- Queen Anne (probs gay).
Which is not to say I am not enjoying it, because I certainly am.
Tina Brown gives me hope that someone with ridiculously lowbrow sensibilities can one day become HBIC at the New Yorker. There's hope for us all!
Unemployed goals for tomorrow: leave the house more than once; put on a bra.
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