The Kardashians - My New Archenemies

I'm considering starting a Twitter war with the Kardashians. Just one question: How would one go about this exactly?

I don't really know how a Twitter war happens, but I think it could be a good way to become famous for nothing while simultaneously working off my growing frustration over the overwhelming amount of stupidity in this world.

Today, I decided that these women are my sworn archenemies. They just don't know it.

Until lately, I haven't cared strongly about the Kardashian women one way or the other. Sometimes when I have had a slight hangover, I have watched their reality shows on E! It's important to watch stupid TV (and E! kills brain cells faster than a bottle of tequila) when your brain is sluggish from too much alcohol consumption. There is no other time that anyone should actually be interested in their numerous shows.

But I confess that I enjoy Khloe, who is funny and seems to genuinely love her husband, Lamar. I feel sorry for Kourtney because her boyfriend seems like an awful person. I don't know if it's played up for the cameras or not (I hope it is), but he is an abusive alcoholic. I want her to leave him. When he drunkenly slammed his fist into a mirror and it shattered, leaving him bleeding and blinking in confusion like some wounded animal, I wanted her to walk out and never go back. And I understood completely why she couldn't do it. But then, I can show you the real reality of living with an addict and the horrible consequences it can bring.

So why do I care now? Why do I feel so offended every time I see another headline about Kim and her fake marriage or read about the new novel she has "written" with her sisters?

Because I'm becoming slightly disillusioned with the publishing industry and its focus on having a platform. If you aren't familiar with this word, it's basically just lingo for these questions: "How famous are you? How many people know you exist? How many people consider you an expert on a certain topic?"

Don't ask  me what the Kardashians are experts on other than selling every little thing about themselves and their lives for mass consumption. Note: Mass consumption can only happen with things that appeal to the lowest common denominator. So, unfortunately, dumb things and bland things are the key to success. (Key examples: Two and a Half Men, Twilight, Adam Sandler movies, the McRib.)

If you know me, you know I've been looking for an agent to represent me and my memoir. It's about addiction and tragedy but it's also about forgiveness, healing, love, and hope.

Today, I decided that I can, at least, be grateful that the message I continue to get from the agents who have rejected me and from industry insiders who have agreed to read my proposal is consistent:

"Well-written, powerful, compelling."
Yea!
"You don't have a platform."
Boo!

I see the books being promoted on Today and on the front tables at major bookstores. There are books (plural) by Snooki. This doesn't make the baby Jesus cry. It makes him crap in his diaper. There is a memoir by Kris Jenner, the self-proclaimed "momager" of the Kardashians. There is a novel by Kim, Khloe, and Kourtney Kardashian. There is a book by a creepy, old boat captain who has suddenly decided to dredge up (sorry for the pun) the Natalie Wood drowning for personal gain. 

It seems clear to me now what I must do. I must find a way to become famous.

Here are some options:

1. Make a sex tape with a B- or C-list celebrity or the close male relative of an A- or B-list celebrity.

2. Accuse Herman Cain of sexual harassment. Because, apparently, my continued accusations of his willful ignorance and ass-hattery aren't enough.

3. Claim that Justin Bieber is the father of my baby. I don't have a baby. I'll need to find a baby somewhere. I'll need to find a baby with this hairdo. ----->

4. Try out for a reality show such as The Bachelor or The Apprentice or The Real Housewives of Wherever the Hell Intolerable Bitches Live. Act like an enormous, unreasonable, intolerable bitch on whichever show it is because the squeaky bitch gets the grease.

5. Accuse Robert Wagner of shoving Natalie Wood off a yacht.

6. Date George Clooney and get him to take me to the Academy Awards. Maybe Stacy Keibler will soon realize that no, he's really not going to marry her or let her have his babies, and she'll move on. I always think these women must believe they will be the one out of a thousand (he has dated a thousand women by now, hasn't he?) who will change his mind about bachelorhood. George, I don't want to change your mind. I don't want to have any babies and I sure as hell don't want to get married. Even to you. We can just date a little bit and get photographed at premieres for a few months.

7. Invent a time machine and go back to an era in which good writing and a compelling story are more important than who has the biggest ass, the grossest sex tape, the dumbest reality show, or the audacity to accuse a famous actor of killing his wife 30 years ago.

How far back would I have to go exactly? Because, with this option, I might actually change some other things instead. And then, instead of having a compelling story to tell, I'd have my best friend back and my children would have their dad.

With whom should I start a Twitter war to address that?

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An Angry Rant

Today I’ve been in a bad, sad, “feeling helpless, he felt hopeless” sort of mood. When my son came home, I jumped down his throat about an assignment he was supposed to turn in but didn’t because he wrote it on my Mac and didn’t know he had to save it as a .doc in order to print it out on the computers at school.

“I’m sorry, Jacob,” I said, about five seconds later when I realized I was being awful. “I’m just upset for you because now you won’t get the grade you deserve. You’ll get points off for being late and that’s unfair. You did the work.”

“It’s OK, Mom. You seem sad today.”

For a teenage boy, my son is remarkably sensitive to the moods of the people around him.

“I’m just in a bad mood. I’m sick of waiting to hear from agents about my book. I’m sick of this weather. I’m sick of people.” I got a little teary-eyed.

“It sounds like you need to get drunk,” he said, joking. “And post a rant. That’s what your blog needs. A rant. An angry rant. A drunken, angry rant.”

You know what? That’s one smart kid.

So here's some ranting directed at random folks, in no particular order. Here goes (proceed with caution):

A disgrace to gingers 

Mike McQueary, I really want to understand you. Of all the people in this hideous, horrific story coming out of Penn State, you’re the one I keep coming back to.

Listen, Mike, I’m not completely unsympathetic. I can’t stop imagining what you saw, how awful and shocking it must have been. I have also been witness to something unspeakable. I know what it does to a person. You go into shock. Your mouth goes dry. Your focus narrows to only what is in front of you and the rest of the world becomes nothing more than a blurry, spinning whirl of colors. I saw something most people will never see in their life. Was I in shock? Yes. But I also went straight to the phone and I dialed 911. Why the hell didn’t you do that, you asshole? I don’t get it. You did nothing but go home and, later, report what you saw to the coach. Then you, what, went on with your life? Forgot what you saw? Weren’t bothered that a rapist was still allowed around young boys?

You suck.

It has an animal print cover, for God's sake

Literary agents,  I get it. I really do. You’re looking for the books that will make you money. So you sell books by people like Snooki and Kris Jenner. You sell novels “written” by Kim Kardashian and her two sisters. And publishers eat that shit up. I seriously doubt even one of those women wrote a word of that novel about a character named Kamille. They probably just went through it and changed all the C-words to start with a K instead. Dumb kunts. Their novel will be released tomorrow. It’s first-run printing is 300,000 copies, more than the first-run printing for Joan Didion’s most recent book. And Jesus wept.

Actually, this makes me realize it’s not the agents who deserve my wrath, it’s the dumb asses who buy books by people like Snooki and Kris Jenner and that trio of Kardashian famewhores marketing geniuses.

What is wrong with these people? If they didn’t buy that shit, maybe agents would seek out good work instead of seeking out crap Krap.

This book bites.

This brings me to Twihards. Oh shut it. Those books are poorly written. Worse, they’re boring. But, fine, you enjoy them. I’m glad. I’ve enjoyed plenty of stuff that isn’t exactly classic literature. Beginning when I was 12, I read Whitney, My Love by Judith McNaught once a year for about ten years (until I realized the Duke is really an abusive, obsessive control freak who rapes the heroine because he’s so "in love" with her. Ick.) It’s not your enjoyment of the series that irks me. It’s that you keep trying to convince me how good the books are. 

Let me stop you before you say that I should give them a try. I did give them a try. I read the first one while sitting next to a swimming pool in beautiful North Carolina. The bar is set pretty low for poolside reading material so I should have enjoyed it. Cosmo is enjoyable when you have a drink in one hand while you sit in a lounge chair. So if a book can't entertain me while I'm getting a tan and enjoying a daiquiri, it's pretty shitty. I read the second one next to another pool a couple of summers later. I was trying to give it another shot because you people are just so insistent that the series is the most awesome thing that's ever happened to you since you got married and apparently became totally bored with your lives and need a hit of sparkly, white vampire ass to enrich your fantasies. 

What I wanted to do was toss that poorly written, boring paperback in the pool. So stop trying to convince me the books are good. Stop it. Read them a million times if you must (a shame since there are about a million better books out there worth reading). But stop trying to convince me that I should read them, too. I don’t bug you relentlessly about how you should read books by Ian McEwan or Jonathan Franzen or Ann Patchett or Andre Dubus III or Jennifer Egan. I don't tell you that you must be wrong if you don't instantly latch onto these great literary works and start wearing T-shirts that say Team Ian or Team Andre.

Herman Cain’s wife. I feel for you. I’m sure you believe your husband would never do any of the things he was accused of doing 20 years ago. But good God, the wives of men who are accused of cheating/straying/harassing are the world’s worst character witnesses. Just ask the millions of women who have discovered their husbands cheated on them and they never knew what was going on. 

And to say that he “totally respects women” is just laughable. So he was showing respect when he referred to Nancy Pelosi as “Princess Nancy” during a GOP debate? He was showing respect when he made a joke about Anita Hill? He was showing respect when he discussed what he would and would not be willing to pay Gloria Allred to do? While grinning like a fool as if to say, “If you know what I mean.” Yes, Herman, we know what you mean. Hardy-har-har. You, sir, are an ass-hat.

But console yourself with this, Mrs. Cain: You are not the only woman married to an ass-hat. There are plenty of them out there. Maybe you should go talk to the last two Mrs. Newt Gingriches or Mrs. Weiner or Demi Moore. Just stop talking to the media.

The time change. It gets dark before 5 PM. That is some bull shit, people.

OK, that about covers it for now. I really need to find a way back to my happy place.

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