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2004-08-03 - 11:06 a.m.


The NY Times has a funny article about UPNs new reality show, The Player. While this asinine show will never sully my television screen, the article itself receives an A because of quotes like this: One of the characters says, I think I'm the No. 1 player, because I can, straight up, ping-on, ting-on, ping-on, ting-on, ping-tong-tong-ping-tong-pong. Is that Chinese? What the fuck does that mean? You know, I think Pencopal has straight up pinged-on, tinged-on, pinged tonged, too. Like five years ago or something. With this guy who worked in a sausage factory. I remember thinking, damn, I think Im pinging on, or perhaps, tinging on. It was weird.


The last fluffy novel I read was "Good in Bed," by Jennifer Weiner. She's just too damned good to resist. But once I finished my own book, I stopped reading anything that wasn't literary fiction, mysteries not included. I became a book snob; mass market paperback be damned. Those books are for the masses, see, the very category says so. I thought, unless it's a classic, if it's not a trade paperback or a hardcover, it probably blows. But a friend at work lent me a book that she promised was breezy and fun, which was what I needed after busting my ass all summer. I just finished "Can You Keep a Secret," by Sophie Kinsella, and I loved it. Reading that book was like watching TV. I usually read to understand something new about the human experience, or to feel changed by being inside an amazing author's mind for a few hundred pages. But this book was more about entertainment and humor. It was actually kind of fun. Now I wonder, dare I read a book with the word "shopaholic" in the title?

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