I don’t know how worried to be about the threats against Congress members who voted for health-care reform over the weekend. I’ve always believed that those who make threats do so out of cowardice, that they cannot keep their mouths shut because it’s operating as a safety valve. On the other hand, conventional wisdom says people leave warnings when they’re planning violent acts, warnings that are almost always ignored because of (see above).
I told someone yesterday I expect to see a government building explode before the end of the year. I wonder what the Fox News counter-narrative on that will be.
It would be irresponsible to speculate. So let’s not. Let’s look, instead, at the state of publishing today. Exhibit A: Jennifer Love Hewitt, author.
Stipulated: It is a fool’s errand to spend even a minute of your finite number on earth asking yourself, “Why was this published, and not that?” And yet, it can hardly be avoided, can it? At least Sarah Palin sold a lot of books. (Although, ahem, I’ve seen a copy of “Going Rogue” sitting on the new-releases shelf at my public library — one patronized by many, many Republicans — for days and days on end. Common sense tells me a book that drew rock-star crowds just a few months ago should not be sitting there, unloved and un-checked out, for that long. I’m starting to wonder how many books she-who sold, after all.)
But honest: Jennifer Love Hewitt? Jennifer. Love. Hewitt. The book is called “The Day I Shot Cupid: Hello, My Name Is Jennifer Love Hewitt, And I’m A Love-aholic.” That’s under her name, so, as the NPR blogger whose work is linked above notes, this means her name is on the cover twice, with a little subliminal zinger thrown in there with “Love.” The major revelation of this book, I’m told, is that it is in these pages that JLH admits to gluing Swarovski crystals on her “precious lady” as, I dunno, kind of a day-brightener, I guess. She refers to this region as her “va-jay-jay,” and now would be the time, LA Mary, to subject her to some serious medical-level questioning:
Are you saying you glued crystals on your vulva, then? No? Well, what do you mean by va-jay-jay, then? On your pubis? Yes? Excuse me, please, I need to make a call. Be right back. …[I need security at intake, please. Security at intake. With restraints.]…Yes, OK, you were saying?
JLH’s book has a pink cover. She wore a pink dress while promoting it. That’s pretty much all you need to know about Jennifer Love Hewitt, author. Also, this:
“This is embarrassing and personal, but once a month, since I was twelve years old, I go to my favorite jewelry store and try on my dream ring.” She is 31 years old. If this is true, she has made roughly 225 trips to the jewelry store to try on engagement rings. I do not know where to go with this.
I’m going to go back to worrying about crazy teabaggers. It’s less upsetting.
A suburban high school here is wrangling over its ban on so-called freak dancing at the prom, and the DetNews does a story. My quibble is with the graphic, which implies the lambada was once a “controversial” dance. My contention is that no one ever did the lambada at all, that the entire dance was invented for one zero-star movie, and I think the graphic supports me on this — the lambada couple looks like it’s doing the hustle, or whatever you call it. Meanwhile, where’s the freaking? Sheesh. (Kids at the middle-school dances I chaperone were asked to sign an agreement that there would be no freaking all year. Thank God we have held the line!)
Meanwhile, medical marijuana was approved by Michigan voters more than a year ago, and still no one knows what the law is.
And I’m lame and done.