(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on January 24, 2010)
This week I received another sign that Armageddon is on the way.
Our anger shaman, Henry Rollins, has a girlfriend.
Say whaaa?
First things first, I’m not seeing Edmonton on your tour schedule, and now you publicly admit to being attached and in a committed relationship? WTF, Hank? Clearly, pigs are about to fly and that weasel Garry Bettman is giving Satan his own NHL franchise.
Henry, my friend, I thought we had a deal.
The Rollins Church of Cynicism cannot exist when our jaded leader falls in love. And how the hell am I going to convert others to your pontifications when you and the Bon Jovi Mobile are steering clear of E-Town?
I feel exactly like I did when I found out the Tooth Faerie is a hoax. Cheated and holding a box of manky old teeth. But without the box of teeth.
I swear to gawd, if Lady Gaga gets caught in jeans and a tee shirt, I’m jumping off the roof.
I was also cheated in another way this week. Book number three of the year was supposed to be Salman Rushdie’s The Enchantress of Florence. I am abandoning it. I am on page 184 out of 349 and this story still hasn’t picked up. As a matter of fact, after 184 pages, it’s been a complete snore and somebody really needs to liberate Rushdie’s thesaurus; his writing is excessively wordy and quite frankly, hollow. Oh ya, I went there. I’ve also dropped a couple of Rushdie’s books off my “I Must Read This Before I Die” list. Life is too short and he’s already shaved way too much time off my life with this piece of doo-doo.
I accept part of the blame for this situation. I did pick the book myself after reading stellar reviews and watching it appear all over Best Seller lists. Generally, I am not persuaded by a journalist’s review of a book or Best Seller lists. Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one. And a Best Seller is exactly that, a best seller, and never a clear indication of what the quality of the book is.
Let me take a moment to remind you that Britney Spears is a best selling author.
Ya, that’s right, now you get it.
Literature is subjective, as are all art forms, and I should know better than to allow another person to sway my choice. The last time I picked up a book that people were gushing over was Sara Gruen's Water for Elephants. After four attempts, I still haven’t got past the second chapter of that cure for insomnia. Just shoot me if I pick up anything by Stephenie Meyer. Gawd, her writing is shite.
So, after reading The Dalai Lama’s Little Book of Inner Peace by His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, Stuck in Downward Dog by Chantel Simmons, and abandoning The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie, I am rounding out the month of January with Cosmic Jackpot: Why Our Universe is Just Right for Life by Paul Davies. I have flipped through it and it promises to be a mind-fuck for sure… leptons and quarks, big bangs and big rips.
This better be good Trev or you owe me $34.95 and your testicles. And don’t think I won’t collect either.
