Thursday, September 14, 2006

I READ, y'all

Editor's Note: I apologize for the recent spike in "y'all"s on this blog, but A) I'm part Texan, and B) I love me some Britney Spears (P.S. She was on an ALA READ poster, hence the title of this post).

I'm a giant magazine whore. By giant, of course, I mean "avid", and by whore I mean "reader", just so that there's no confusion. Also, hi grandma! She reads my blog sometimes! Isn't that so cute? I love her.

Anyway, back to my pseudo-literary whoring. I used to love to read as a child. There was nothing better than an afternoon spent reading. I would make a snack of crackers and cheese and curl up under my blanket in a chair next to the window, savoring words and crumbs with the same delirious pleasure. I had -- as I still do -- wildly varying tastes, so one day it might be R.L. Stine or Stephen King, and the next I might have moved on to Henry James or J.D. Salinger. After graduating from my Babysitter's Club years, I went through an unfathomable Irish period in which I favored Roddy Doyle and the rustic romances of Maeve Binchy. I distinctly remember that I was going through emotional puberty at that time, because I cried my way through Circle of Friends, a lite-soap opera about the unlikely courtship of a pudgy girl by a gorgeous jock. I still have my copy; on the binding, in bright green marker, my hormonal scrawling reads "Go Benny!!!" and "Jack is scum!!!" The only time since I've been more upset was when Billy and Alison broke up on Melrose. No, seriously. I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed, stopping only to scream at my little sister that it was NOT just a TV show. ....Aaaaaanyway ...

I still love reading, but now I prefer to be able to read a complete work in the time it takes me to travel five stops on the B train. I like to be able to throw it out as soon as I'm done, too. It's kind of satisfying, that sense of finality, although I suppose one could argue that reading In Touch Weekly in fifteen minutes is no great feat. If I want heavy reading (my new Henry James, if you will), I page through Elle or Vanity Fair. I also read the New Yorker, which has sometimes even has stories that don't involve Lindsay Lohan or face cream analysis.

That brings me to the whole reason I started blogging today (it's almost seven and I'm still at work, so 'd better get to the point). I was reading Lucky the other day and there was a piece on some new, retardedly expensive face serum called something similarly asshat-ish like Creme Ancien. It was nothing I would have cared about, normally, but as I scanned the paragraph I saw that the "ancient" ingredients were "harvested" using "indigenous methods". It's not so much that I don't believe that, I just can't really imagine what it means. It brings to mind a fantastic image of beauty editors, their Botoxed faces contorted in near-strain as they dig, barehanded, in the dirt, grunting. I mean, what are "indigenous methods"? Do they, like, use wrought iron spears instead of drills? Somehow I doubt it.

The world is bizarre.

I also read a piece in New York about how David Berkowitz is an apostle of Christ now. We know this to be true -- or at least NY Mag does -- because a devout biker chick with a mullet who is herself a self-proclaimed apostle received from God the number '44' as some kind of magic soul brand, and therefore takes David's penchant for .44 caliber pistols as a sign.

See? Reading can be fun.
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