As I may have mentioned before (I am unsure due to the fact that it has actually been rather difficult to come up with a daily blather this month), I do not have any guilty pleasures. I gladly admit to anything that I take a liking to – whether it be trips to Disneyland or reading a play by Ibsen. Can I identify a Salena Gomez song? Chances are yes, I can tell you when it is her song playing. Am I fan? Of her work in Wizards of Waverly Place yes, her music not so much but yet it does not bother me when it is playing. People will admit that they feel bad about enjoying the film Drumline, or listening to certain songs. I have never understood why they would feel shame in enjoying something that gives them pleasure (without breaking any laws, naturally).
The most recent example of what should be a guilty pleasure: Bobbie Brown’s Dirty Rocker Boys. Released this past Tuesday, it arrived in the same package as a DVD of the Big Star documentary, Nothing Can Hurt Me. A quick review: an autobiography written by the person best known as the Cherry Pie girl in the same box as a documentary on a not-widely known band that influenced The Replacements, Elliot Smith and REM. I eagerly anticipated both of these items during my drive home as I knew that they arrived while I was at work.
Why on earth would I be so excited? Is it my love of gossip? Sure. A curiosity about the life of a video vixen? I guess. Is it a love of most hair bands? Absolutely a factor. All I can say is that I read the book in two sittings (damn the need for sleep), which was upsetting. Not that I read it that quickly, as I can do that with certain books / authors (most recently with Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere, which I still cannot believe took me until this year to read), but that I finished it so quickly. That was going to be my book to read during the Thanksgiving holiday.
The schedule as I saw it: wake up in the morning, watch Reservoir Dogs as is tradition, clean a bit, help a bit, then watch the Big Star documentary. Take a break to have the mental preparation for the family time, eat and then have Bobbie’s book on hand to keep me company. Last year that honor went to Jimmie Walker’s Dyn-O-Mite, a mighty fine read, and this year was to be spent escaping into Bobbie’s world. Now I am sitting here, taking a break from deciding what to read to blog about my foolish mistake.
Given my book addiction, for it truly is an addiction, I have many selections on hand. Right now it is looking like it may be Neil Gaiman’s American Gods or Michelle Tea’s Mermaid in Chelsea Creek. For all I know it could be the copy of Peyton Place that will call out for me to bring as my dinner date. The only thing I do know is that I will at least have Big Star to keep me company during the afternoon.
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