Oh, dear God. You know, as much as I’m amused by the idea of Bill Clinton getting a jillion-dollar advance for his book, and driving conservatives crazy by lining them up around the block for an autograph, and writing 957 pages in the first place…well, I’m amused. I just think it’s funny the way it makes steam come out of their ears and all that, the same way they think it’s funny the way Michael Moore gets all apoplectic about Bush’s National Guard service.
And then I read the first sentence of “My Life” — thanks, Slate, for reading it so I don’t have to — and I just…cringe:
“Early on the morning of August 19, 1946, I was born under a clear sky after a violent summer storm to a widowed mother in the Julia Chester Hospital in Hope, a town of about six thousand in southwest Arkansas, thirty-three miles east of the Texas border at Texarkana.”
I mean. The weather report. The name of the hospital. The name of the town. A handy locator map. This guy is a one-man Gannett newspaper. And it’s not just because I’m a copy editor now, either; this is just flat wrong. Where are the editors? Does no one edit the president? Does no one say “Please, less”?
Another interesting tidbit: Clinton was in DeMolay. I knew a boy in Demolay when I was very young. He took me to see “A Clockwork Orange” when I was 14 and he was…older, anyway. He explained DeMolay, but I never, ever got it. Of course, I was Catholic at the time. Just thinking about it now, I’d bet anything he’s a Mason now. He was just the type.
Oh, well. The predictable second-day story to the Clintonmania first-day stories from the east coast was summed up here: Go to a local bookstore, note lack of Clintonmania. Extra credit: Quote someone saying “I disagree with him morally.” Extra extra credit: Note Republican senate candidate in his own sort of mess of late.
Hum to self: When will they ever learn? Oh when will they ever learn?
Because I’m tired, and because nothing much happened today other than beautiful weather and a lovely June day, here’s a note from Deb. I’ve been here so many times I can’t tell you:
I went to a jewelry party last night. kind of like a tupperware party, except it’s all sterling silver. what a fiasco.
I do not belong at such events, and I have no idea why I went, except that the hostess is a very nice woman with whom I’m fairly friendly. why do I feel such a deep need to be accepted?
I walk into the house and it’s three times the size of ours, immaculate, and flawlessly decorated, so I hate the evening already. there are about 30 women milling around — a few school moms, but mostly stepford wives, all of whom make me feel like a complete skank. perfect rail-thin bodies, perfect summer outfits, perfect blond hair, perfect summer shoes showing off perfectly painted toenails. (I’m wearing too-tight capri jeans and the beaded esprit flip-flops I bought three years ago. no nail polish; as if.)
the stepfords are all huddled around the jewelry table, trying on rings and bracelets and necklaces. I pick up a catalog and page through it purposefully, trying to find one thing I can stand that isn’t outrageously expensive (the $89 purse? the $125 choker? no.). then I overhear this conversation between the most stunning stepford and the jewelry consultant:
stepford: I just LOVE these necklaces. you could wear these with ANYTHING. jewelry consultant: yes. a piece like this can COMPLETELY CHANGE THE LOOK OF YOUR OUTFIT. lots of people don’t think about that. stepford: oh, I KNOW! with this pieces, for instance, you could…
at this point I tune them out, thinking, “you do not belong in this room. order something and flee.” I wasn’t even planning to buy anything, but ordering would get me out of there gracefully a lot faster than NOT ordering. so I pony up $30 for a nice pair of square cubic zirconia posts and get the hell out of there.
I think Deb should write a book myself. Note the lack of a weather report in the above pungent passage.