Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Lamenting Languishing Literature

Apparently, Lauren Conrad's new book, L.A. Candy, will be turned into a movie. Who is Lauren Conrad, you ask? Some girl who became a reality TV star and then deluded herself into thinking she was talented because she's on TV. Now she's also a "fashion designer" and "author". Please. I saw her appearance as a guest judge on America's Next Top Model. The girl didn't know shit about modeling. She was very good at regurgitating the other judges' opinions. Tyra, what the f*ck? Usually your guest judges are much more fashion-savvy, and have a personality.

That L.A. Candy is a bestseller makes me want to give up on humanity. To add insult to injury, it's the first of a three-book deal. I forced myself to read an excerpt. After the first sentence, my initial suspicions were confirmed: Lauren Conrad is not a writer. The subject matter is vapid; the flow of phrases as smooth as a porcupine quill. And now they want to turn it into a movie. Of course. Because everyone wants to see the life of a reality TV bimbo depicted on a big screen for two hours. Are we really that masochistic? 

If Jon Gosselin, newly minted jet-setter from Jon & Kate Plus 8, ever writes a book, and someone actually publishes it, and then a movie is made based on it, I may have to strangle myself. But I digress.

Lauren Conrad is one of numerous bland young women populating the red carpets and the Hollywood psyche these days. They are so eerily similar, it's hard to tell them apart: Lauren Conrad, Heidi Montag, Kristin Cavallari, Stephanie Pratt, Lauren Bosworth, etc... and together, they seem to be sinking the lowest common denominator down to new depths of imbecility. If we continue down this path, the National Enquirer may someday be considered our highest form of literature.

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