So, I decided to fight (one of) my (infinite number of social) fear(s) and go out to lunch alone today. This was helped by the fact that I work in a town which, at least until 5p.m., is inhabited almost entirely by working stiffs, many of whom also eat alone. Still, it is not my favorite thing to do. Usually, when I am without a lunch companion, I eat at my desk while reading Go Fug Yourself, but today I decided that I had breathed the same 100 cubic feet of air long enough and should go out, (where it is 9,000 degrees with a 100% chance of sweat-your-fat-ass-off, by the way).
So, I went to a local eatery, bought me a trashy magazine, ordered the fish, and sat down.
A note about People magazine: in my defense, I used to have this policy where I would only read it in doctor's offices, which was perfect because those human interest stories about disabled children who write poetry often make me ill, anyway. Lately, however, I have been on a journey of self-acceptance, (not really, but play along), and part of that journey is to embrace the star-fucker side of myself. See, I am obsessed with celebrity. Not celebrities, mind you, celebrity, as in the entity of celebrity. Of course, celebrities play heavily into this, but whatever. I don't know why I find this crap interesting, and I frankly do not care. I am still an intelligent person with meaningful things to say, (this blog notwithstanding). Besides, while it is not nice to make fun of people you actually know, (and I never do that), low-rent famous people are fair game.
So, there I was, happily reading about Jude Law's wandering penis, when I came across the following review of the new Rob Zombie flick (let's all get tickets!), The Devil's Rejects:
"Blood, gore and nasty, sadistic folk fill the screen in a sly slasher pic about a sicko family of killers in writer-director Rob Zombie's follow-up to his earlier House of 1000 Corpses. It's self indulgent and rococo, but Zombie is inarguably born to the genre."
Excuse me, but "rococo"...in People? WTF? If I want to read words that I pretend I know the definition of, I'll go back to school, thank you very much. And the whole tone of this review is just insanely high-minded. I can't help thinking of the poor bastard who wrote it. I imagine a frustrated literary genius with an MFA who, in order to make ends meet, is now forced to view Rob Zombie movies and write encapsulated reviews of them for magazines most people keep in the bathroom. What a waste of talent.
Oh, and the fish was delicious.