Wednesday, Los Angeles.
Ah, my glamorous life.
I have a lot of half-written posts swimming around in my head, about the trials and tribulations of being a hetero radical feminist, for one thing, and then there was this review of The Other Boleyn Girl I was going to write (right on the tip of the news cycle, I am, right?), but then my students, damn it, gave me another freakin cold and so I have spent the last four or five days on the sofa sampling the absolute worst cable TV has to offer. I mean, for one thing: Sober House. I thought addicts were self-absorbed toxic motherfuckers. Until I met: celebrity addicts. Cheesus Fucking Christ on a Cracker. The entitlement! The stupidity! It's not a train wreck, it's a train wreck on the Titanic, with a side of the Inferno. Hey guys, we're four days out of rehab. Let's go clubbing! Idiots. The poor women on that show need man rehab. Like 28 days without men bossing them around and treating them like meat, and then an all-female sober house. And no boyfriends. Gah. So much to blame, so little time.
So anyway, I am off to a conference in Los Angeles later this week. If I see any of those celebrity addicts I'll let y'all know.