The Evolution of the Hangover

Inigo Thomas has written a brief History of the Hangover for Slate.

It's a nostalgic consideration of hangovers that flows so nicely that it's tempting to run out tonight and get wasted, if only to savour the consequences tomorrow.

Admittedly, I started this year with a hangover, and I got to tell you, at 32, hangovers aren't quite as they were in my 20s. Instead of relishing greasy fast food and giggling with girlfriends, I felt filled with shame, indeterminate rage, and diarrhea.

I think for me the allure of hangovers used to be the excuse for a day-off. Ten years ago, after a night of drinking, the next day would often involve a touch-base brunch with friends, where we would compare headaches, bottles of wine personally consumed, cigarettes smoked, and boys/girls we may or may not have brought back to our bachelorettes. As we chatted, spicy caesars would be devoured along with every seedy detail of our evenings. My only other plans for the day would be sleep and hours of television viewing.

My professional obligations hardly mattered. I remember working one job where the accountant would come down to my office with Advil and a glass of water and hand them over wordlessly whenever she noticed I was looking a little worse for wear. And all it took was two pills, a chicken salad sandwich and a fries with gravy (along with lots and lots of coffee) and I was ready for another night out.

These days I loathe operating with a hangover and not operating is simply not an option. My office is the last place on earth where I would ever want to smell last night's pints on my breath, and I'm no longer content to wear day-old underwear because I couldn't be bothered to do my laundry.

I also think, without having any scientific proof, that post-drinking depression hits you differently in your 30s. Instead of feeling relaxed and open-minded I get heart palpitations and feel abject despair. There's an acute awareness that not only am I aging, but I'm aging with a certain lack of grace.

Cripes. Maybe I do need a drink.

Sad Clown

For those who missed it, this was the now-booted Marvita's incredibly sad photo from last week:

Feel the Pain: Another Week of ANTM

This week we begin by cruising in the Fab Cab post-panel, where Aimee is just really surprised y'all about all the compliments she got on her glowing skin. Oh the epidermal benefits of a Mormon lifestyle...

Back at the loft it is quickly apparent that just as Claire's breast milk is drying up, so is her patience. Unable to deal with Dominique's beeping alarm clock, she calls Miss Dom a "shady bitch." It seems a little heavy, especially for 6 in the morning, but these are grown women sleeping in bunk beds.

The fight continues into more civilized hours, as Dominique yells back at Claire and suggests that if Claire calls Dominique a bitch, she probably calls her husband a bitch (it will be years before anything will be created to span the distance in that gap in logic). Claire gets all "why you bringing up my home life?" and then, with finger wagging, goes for the gut. "At least I have a husband." Burn. Except that Dominique seems sort of totally oblivious to the apparent attack on her single motherhood status.

Lauren and Whitney jump in with their own variations on "shady bitch." Lauren calls Dominique "fucking crazy" and Whitney just blabs something inane and cheerleader-ish.

But enough of the petty arguing. It's Tyra Time. As the girls pull out in the Fab Cab, the driver's divider window draws down to reveal Miss Tyra behind the wheel. She pretends she's the one who has actually been driving them around, which leads me to wonder if that will be her next big undercover assignment (In the spirit of hard-hitting investigative journalism, Tyra's already gone in cognito as a man, a poor person, and a fat person. Why not a middle-of-the-road person?)

The girls are directed up to a dance studio where they put on red long johns and get further runway strutting and posing instructions from Tyra (who is wearing a black body suit and what appears to be a leather girdle).

According to Tyra, it is all about "posing with pain." She instructs the girls to pose as if they have what appears to be carpal tunnel, spina bifida and then period cramps. Because nothing says couture like a swollen belly and a sudden hatred for all mankind.

The highlight of the training is Tyra mocking Lauren by doing a crack walk shuffle. Having spent years studying the variations of this shuffle, I can assure you that Tyra has a good crack walk. She just needs to work on her paranoid back-spin a bit.

Back at the loft the girls learn the training was actually a contest, and Anya won for best pose with pain. Anya is very excited because she wins a photo shoot with Nigel Barker. As Anya talks about Tyra and Nigel's greatness I realize I know exactly where I have heard her accent before. It's not Hawaiian--it's Derek Zoolander's accent! It's uncanny! I wonder if she actually studied it or if she was just born with it.

Anya's photo shoot get her nude and rolling around on a bed with Nigel looking on somewhat lecherously. But I have to admit, the photos look amazing.

When Anya returns and gushes about her nude shoot, Aimee brings up her never-nudeness again and admits she's relieved she didn't win the prize. Apparently good Mormon skin is covered-up Mormon skin.

Meanwhile, Lauren, Whitney and Claire decide to camp out in the bedroom when Dominique is trying to sleep. They gossip about her with increasing loudness the more urgently Dominique begs them to go to another room to talk about her. It's at this point that I actually have to side with Dominique. I mean, we have all been victims of the bitchy girl posse (albeit in grade seven) and it really isn't cool to gang up on people, even if they are shady bitches. As for Claire, I sort of expected more from a nursing mommy.

The next day the girls are taken to their shoot in Williamsburg, where they are shot by Russell James and dressed in various music-inspired fashions.

Fatima is heavy metal, Claire is old-style country (she looks like a Hee Haw extra), Whitney is grunge and Lauren is pop, although her red and black PVC outfit is more appropriate for a trannie hooker. Dominique is dressed in a folksy outfit with headband and looks so hideous that I actually gasped when I saw her.

But during panel, the judges continue to pretend that Dominique is not the fugliest ANTM contestant ever and she actually gets compliments on looking like the scariest possible byproduct of Sonny and Cher. The judges also conveniently continue to ignore Stacy-Ann's totally cheesy catalogue look, perhaps because they are too busy being awed by how hot (and by hot they mean the opposite of Eastern European sleaze) Kataryzna looks in her Emo photo with short hair. Tyra tells her a pair of scissors will be visiting her at the loft next week.

Whitney ranks first for her pic and Claire and Aimee are in the bottom two. This is ridiculous considering every other week these girls have taken great photos. For some reason the judges have had something against Aimee from the start and now it's time for her to take her modesty and get the hell out of dodge.

Next Week: The fashion world tells Whitney her size 10 body is too big and I feel mounting shame about all the chocolate I've been eating.

Neon Paint, Vogueing and Arm Pit Hair? It's the 80s on ANTM!

Sigh. So, let's guess what this week's episode of ANTM offers. Fatima dissing other girls for being ghetto? Check. Dominique talking about her fabulous self in the third-person? Check. Marvita revealing even greater depths of self-defeatism? And check.

If anything, the girls this season are consistent. And so are the experts. Benny Ninja is back in all his 90 pounds of vogueing glory. He tells the girls it's all about the three Cs: Commercial, Catalogue and Couture. While it is never really clear to me what the difference is between commercial and catalogue (is it, like, the difference between print and television??) the girls seems to do well hamming it up in front of the little posing hobbit and his token supermodel sidekick Vendela.

Back at the loft, Dominique misses her scheduled phone time and it is totally Whitney's fault because she should have kept an eye on Dominique's time and told her since Dominique is a SINGLE MOTHER and can't possibly be responsible for something as intense as, well, keeping track of time. Since Whitney refuses to accept blame, Dominique calls her a "big brick wall who's racist." Huh? Whitney, who gravely notes that in the south you do not joke about racism, blows up. But as Dominique explains with calm insanity, "you can be racist against a red-headed white Catholic girl."

And this is why I hate people who speak of themselves in the third person: they are retarded.

Thankfully, the girls head off to Brooklyn, Lauren's territory, where they are greeted by a bunch of freakish club kid trannies who apparently drove their Back to the Future DeLorean all the way here from 1989. Dominique gives a knowing wink to the trannies, like, uh huh, these my peeps, while some of the other girls, like Stacy-Ann, seem terrified by the screaming hooting e-tripping boy/girls.

The girls are set up into two teams for a pose-off where Fatima takes the rather aggressive competitive stance of shoving her vadge in Whitney's face to one-up her. Nice try, but no love, as Whitney pulls out the splits. Buel-yeah! Of course, size 2 Vendela crunches her nose at the display of plus-size flexibility and suggests Whitney looks trashy. Apparently since her dye job, a number of people have told her she looks like Anna Nicole Smith. Yikes. But good for tranny judges.

In the end, the team with Claire, Marvita, Whitney, Katarzyna and Stacy-Ann wins and the girls get to go with Vendela to a swag tent where they can grab whatever they want. Since Claire is the best poseur, she wins a trip to Bora Bora. Oh, to be one of the beautiful people.

But it seems like an invite to the land of the lucky is not sitting well with Marvita, whose wavering self-confidence can only be assuaged by sucking back 45s with Lauren. She keeps mentioning how the loft is the nicest place she's ever lived, how the swag was free--free!--and how she's just not used to this in the ghetto. Meanwhile, Fatima glares at the beer-swigging Marvita and snips about how she's so "hood."

At this week's photo shoot, Mr. Jay has the girls wearing 80s punk glam visors and bright eyeshadow while getting cans of neon paint poured over their heads. Basically a couture version of You Can't Do That on Television.

While most of the girls do a good job not looking freaked while paint runs down their eyes, Whitney looks a little porno, Anya looks a little stunned and Marvita looks really sad. Dominique, unfortunately, kicks ass.

At panel, Vendela joins the under-used Paulina, the sparkly brow Miss J, the orange Nigel and the self-aggrandizing Tyra. Looking at the photos, the great scandal is that--gasp!-Fatima doesn't shave her pits! There are like 9 little soft hairs showing and Tyra is like, "you haven't shaved in months." What?

I shave every day and by noon my pits have a 5 o'clock shadow. 9 hairs? Then Nigel goes on about how retouching is expensive and a razor is cheap. Whatwhat? A razor is like $15. Each blade is like another $4 (which is why I am still scraping the same sorry ass razor over my legs that I bought in October). And from what I can tell, Photoshop is pretty damn cheap and basically used by every photographer anyway.

Well, after the trauma of the exposed arm pit hair, we learn that Lauren's heels are missing (damn trannies) and then Marvita's photo is revealed. Oh, Marvita. This photo might be the saddest photo ever taken on ANTM. You know those old velvet paintings of sad clowns with wilted flowers? Well, that's this photo. I burst out laughing and crying when it was revealed. That sad.

In the end, Whitney and Marvita are left standing and then Marvita is sent packing.

Next week: The whole house explains to Dominique that she's insane.

In Case It Wasn't Clear, Tyra Declares: Models Are Pieces of Meat

As this week's episode of ANTM started, I was startled into realizing just how fugly this season's makeovers are. I mean Anya looks like she just emerged from some sort of alien pod, and Dominique's new hair colour looks like it's still being set. What's up with the roots being lighter than the rest of her hair?!

Regardless of her appearance (and the fact that she was in the bottom two), Dominique says Tyra has put her on a "pedestal" and brags to the other girls that they'd best watch out. The girls politely roll their eyes before going back to ignoring her.

Back at the loft, the Tyra Ticker (props to Entertainment Weekly for the name) suggests the girls are off to the fire hall. And sure enough, the Fab Cab drops the girls off at the 5th Company Fire Hall, where Miss J makes her grand entrance by sliding down the fire pole like a real, er, pro.

The girls are given 90 seconds to dress up in weird firefighter uniforms/lederhosen, with high heeled duckies. It's all really wrong, but it's more wrong for Fatima who leaves her own shoes own and is scolded by Miss J for the oversight. BTW--How obvious is it that Miss J cannot stand Fatima!

The hall's men are invited to gather round and watch the girls do a runway walk-off. Claire kicks butt, Fatima walks like she's wearing leg braces, and Amis skips because it "makes her feel good." Despite the antics, the whole scene made me really uncomfortable. The fact that the women are dressed like calendar girls (and are being eyed at close range by a bunch of firefighters) made it more Maxim than Top Model .

Back at the loft Aimee calls the shower, Fatima, Marvita and Dominique get all pissy for no reason (there are apparently three bathrooms in the loft, making the ratio of bathrooms to girls about the same as beds to girls) and Aimee admits her big issue (no public nudity). Wow, these girls' causes just get more and more intense.

Since Whitney stands up for Aimee, Dominique and Fatima decide to hate her and Dom calls her "white trash" which is interesting in light of the fact that apparently next week she accuses Whitney of being a racist...a little projection anyone?

The Fab Cab delivers the girls to an old church where they are doing a Tuleh Designs fashion show for whatever weirdos show up to watch ANTM runway shows. The girls must dress themselves within 3 minutes, while our old ANTM darling Jasleeeeeene and Seventeen Magazine nose-in-chief Ann Shoket watch on. (Let's not even talk about the ridiculous Lohan peace-out that Shoket gives the girls as she leaves backstage.)

In the chaos of self-dressing (what is otherwise known by the rest of the world as simply, um, dressing) there is the inevitable exposed runway nipple, ass cheek, and button mishap. Yes, Fatima buttoned up her sweater incorrectly, which she gets 'dressed down' for but I get it, man. Most days the sides of my shirt are ribbed in white deodorant, my underwear rides above my jeans, my boots are covered in salt and my hair has bits of last night's if-I-eat-it-in-the-kitchen-it-doesn't-count snack in it. All things considered, these girls did a fairly decent job of dressing themselves.

The best dresser, however, is Katarzyna, the girl with the name that is never pronounced the same way twice. She gets to pick two friends (Amis and Marvita?!) to do an advertorial with her and Jaslene for Lot 29. Meanwhile, Lauren is in tears because Jaslene told her she looked like she didn't want to be a model (ouch).

At the loft, the Tyra Ticker spells out the first meat pun of many when it asks if the girls have the "chops." That's right, they are off to the Meatpacking District where apparently some meat is still being packed and not every space is an overpriced theme restaurant/club.

The girls walk into a meat fridge and warily eye the hanging carcasses. Of course leave it to the only model who is a healthy weight to note, "I eat steak. It wouldn't be so bad to put it on." But while Whitney is willing to strap on a pair of beef panties, the rest of the skinny chicks look like they're going to gag. Mind you, the meat bra and halter tops and panties are really nasty looking (and I am sure they felt even worse against skin).

Turns out the threat of salmonella was just what Lauren needed to bring out the model in her. Claiming she just imagined being Leatherface from Texas Chainsaw Massacre, she grips a meat hook and scares the shit out of the photographer, making for an awesome photo.

At judging panel, sleepy Amis looks like an American Apparel-ed Axel Rose and is told to take off her ridiculous headband (now if only we could get them banned from babies!). Although, if we're going to talk about shit head gear, I am not sure why no one is addressing the fact that Fatima's weave looks like a cheap-ass Halloween witch wig. I mean, it is sad.

Checking out the pictures, Whitney's photo makes her look like a smoking hot Jennifer Jason Leigh, Claire looks all angle-y, Anya looks like an editorial model and Aimee looks disgusted by all the flesh.

As the judges discuss the girls, Nigel notes that Anya "looks like chopped liver in front of you and prime rib in pictures." Again, the judges make fun of Katarzyna's Eastern European/sleazy look.

Tyra hands out the photos but stops when she gets to Katarzyna and makes totally gross and awful sex noises to explain what the judges think of her. She then suggests she wear her hair in a bun next week, I guess to look less, "uuh, uh, uhhuh."

Fatima and Amis are in the bottom two and then Amis and all her wackiness are gone. As she packs up at home she sighs, "I'm so grateful. I got to be a part of something bigger than myself." She seems so genuinely happy that I wish I could spend a day with her brain. I bet it would be like an NFB animated short from the '70s.

Next Week: The tiniest little Ninja returns.

Not a Bedtime Story

Heather O'Neill's Lullabies for Little Criminals is a book that I somehow ended up ignoring for a year even though every reader I know had recommended it to me at some point or another.

I am likely preaching to the choir, but if you haven't read this novel yet, you need to go out and buy it right now.

Lullabies is the story of 12-year old Baby, a young Montrealer who is being raised by her twenty-something junkie dad. Baby is tender and brave and fascinated by the antics of the characters in her hood. But as she shifts unwillingly into adolescence, her relationship with her father is redefined and she is confronted by ever-increasing violence.

O'Neill's descriptions are some of the most original and inspiring perspectives on the everyday. She also so wholly and completely inhabits the character Baby that it is only a matter of pages before I was completely enthralled by this special child's universe.

This story is not for the faint of heart, as the plot takes dark and depressing dips, but the reward is the company of one of contemporary literature's most charming and compelling characters.

Another Sign I'm White? I'm in Denial About How White I Am

If you haven't checked it out already, the blog Stuff White People Like is worth a visit.

It lists white people common denominators like standing still at concerts, wanting multilingual children, and owning modern furniture.

Basically, it turns out my husband is the whitest person I know, and I am a close second.

While at first I was sort of shocked and disturbed, the more I probed the list of white traits, the more relief I felt. All these years I have felt devoid of any culture connection to others. I mean, what am I? Canadian? Scottish-English-German?

I'm white!

At least it's something.

The Greatest Love of All

After years of having her songs bastardized by over-confident, small-lunged pubescent contestants on American Idol, Whitney Houston is fighting back with a new reality series.

You're Getting Schooled by Whitney, Bitches! is the new VH1 series in which Whitney surprises aspiring songstresses and schools them on how it's really done.

Lessons from Whitney include:

*"You Ain't Got the Pipes, So Give It Up!";
*"Hey, if You DO Got a Pipe, Let Me See It!";
*"Mmmm, I Love the Pipe!"; and
*"Girl, I Survived Bobby Brown. Get the Fuck Out of My Face!"

Um, actually none of this is true.

But I wish it was.

Because You're Getting Schooled by Whitney, Bitches! is totally the greatest name for a TV show I've ever made up. And, those girls on American Idol need some Whitney schooling.

Krumping Lessons Now Available Online

About once a year I learn about a new website that actually changes my life.

That time is now, my friends.

The website? Dancejam.com

Put together by MC Hammer (don't be hatin') the site is your go-to for every awesome dance move that is out there.

It features battles and a useful glossary of terms.

Check out videos of Hyphy, TURF (take up room on the floor) or Liquid Dancing (this video is awesome--you can hear an auditorium go apeshit for the moves), along with old classics like breakdancing.

This site is a ray of sunshine in this midst of the endless winter.

From Big Box Stores to Big Backed Barbies: The Tragedy That is ANTM

So this week's episode begins with some serious horn-tooting from Dominique (who I have decided is not a Robin Wright Penn drag, but a Jada Pinkett drag [otherwise known as a Dragga Pinkett]) and Allison. Allison reminds us AGAIN that she's modelled in Asia, in Tapei, Shanghai, Thailand and a bunch of other places where our clothing is made in sweat shops. Wonder who's gonna be in the bottom two...

Fatima, the resident passo-agressor, lets Allison know that her ass is bigger than Fatima's, or at least because Allison is overall a lot bigger, it gives the impression that her ass is bigger. Allison zings back with the "I had an eating disorder, how dare you," which is similar to Marvita's "I was raped, how dare you" of the first episode. I am not sure if this season is about personal causes as much as it's about personal issues which, while normally I find saliciously appealing, I hate being used instead of witty retorts.

The electronic Tyra board lets the girls know it's time to get prepped, so the Fab Cab whisks them off to a suburban Walmart. They are greeted there by Cover Girl reps who tell them their challenge is to quickly apply their own make-up. Oh, and it turns out that the face of the winner of this season will appear on a Walmart display for $6.95 mascara. Ew, glamourous. Glamorous, glamorous. (I'm singing the Fergie song).

In the end Fatima looks ashy, Allison looks trampy and Claire wins for technique and well, just being really pretty. Her prize--she's going to appear on Walmart.com. O-R-O-U-S.

Back at the loft, more self-righteousness. Claire argues that as mothers, her and Dominique have more invested in winning. Amis is all buggy-eyed, yeah, I bet moms really do have more responsibilities. But then Dominique is all, yeah, but I'm a single mom, so I have the most invested.

While that mildly annoying conversation takes place, another more horrifying interaction is unfolding. Allison, who apparently travels with Barbies, pulls them out and starts packing Kleenex in the bottom of the black Barbie because she's "black, so she needs more junk in her trunk!" Allison says this in a high baby voice like, "Barbie tired! Barbie needs sleep!" Whitney is sort of half-playing along at this point, vaguely aware that Fatima is in the room, voicing her annoyance.

Allison continues. Being the voice of the black Barbie she mews, "I like to take it in the back because I'm black."

Uh, WTF?

At this point Whitney sort of rolls away uncomfortably and Fatima (quite rightly) explodes. Meanwhile, I was waiting for some security guard to come and escort Allison out of the loft and onto a direct flight to Chang Mai.

Is it just me or is this season just a little too grim? Maybe I miss the sunlight and warm weather of LA. Maybe it's the gritty new black and white opening. Or maybe it's the fact that these girls this season all seem to be selected for their seriously fucked up natures rather than modelling potential. Sigh.

With a heavy heart I watch the girls get transported to the Stephen Knoll salon for makeovers. Too many girls are dyed plantinum blond, while a small "Tyravision" box at the bottom of the screen features Tyra maniacally imitating the girls as she narrates what changes she's secretly instructed the salon to do.

Smoking hot Whitney goes blond and looks sort of dumpy. Anya looks like an Albino Celine Dion. Claire gets clipped and goes white blond. Allison goes from Gossip Girl to Desperate Housewife. And Stacey-Ann looks like she got shaved by the nurse who checks for head lice. The only obvious makeover winners are Marvita and Fatima, who cries during her weave but then claims the long locks bring out her "East African-ness."

Next morning the girls are driven to the harbour where they find Elle MacPherson and her lingerie line waiting for them inside a boat. George Holz is going to photograph the girls in lingerie with the Brooklyn Bridge as a backdrop! How appropriate for a freezing cold morning in NY!

In the brief moments that she appears on camera, Elle comes across as warm, maternal, sincere and graceful. Plus, during the shoot, she is wearing what look like the coolest pair of Ray Bans ever.

Instead of just hawking her line, Elle takes the time to try and counsel every girl on how to take good pictures. While most girls seem thrilled by her attention, when she gets to Allison, she's too busy posing in the mirror and bragging about her modelling experience in Asia to listen to Elle. Um, oops.

Most of the girls look awkward and unprofessional balancing on the bow of the ship, although Marvita works her new horse do with a gentler confidence.

Back at the loft, Allison and Dominique brag about kicking ass on their shoots...

At juding panel, the crew look like a bunch of freaks. Nigel is orange (even Tyra asks him where the tan is from), George Holz the photographer looks like a creepy pervert, Miss J is wearing sparkly eyebrows that remind me of that raver NY kid that ended up killing his friend and being portrayed by Macaulay Caulkin in that movie that was supposed to mark Macaulay Caulkin's adult acting break-out, and Paulina looks more Paula Abdul than high fashion.

Most of the photos look mediocre and Tyra tells Whitney that she was pissed that the stylist wrapped up the plus-size model in a corset. "I wanted to see your booty," she says. "You got booty like I got booty." She also tells Allison she likes her new look and Allison smiles and nods. Nigel pipes up, "Aren't you going to say thank you?" like he's appalled that the great Tyra was not addressed more formally. Allison continues to smile and then weirdly winks and if you follow the trajectory I think she was winking at Miss J which is just...wrong.

After the girls leave, Tyra grabs Nigel and Miss J's hands and forces them on her ass. "Feel my booty" she says about, well, three times too many and Nigel goes from orange to red. Even I feel sorry for him.

Going through the girls, Holz says he thought Dominique was someone's mom, Paulina knocks Kataryzna as looking "mail order bride" and Miss J describes Anya's mysterious Hawaiian accent as sounding like someone "on sleep medication with a Jamaican accent." Ha!

No surprise, Allison and Dominique are in the bottom two. Dominique is told she is safe and is going to get her hair recoloured while Allison is told she needs to learn two words: Thank. You.

As Miss J rips off Allison's panty liner label from his chest, she bursts into tears and I feel...relieved. I am glad she's off the show because her narcissism and cruelty actually scared me. And racism is not cool.

Good luck in Taipei!

Next Week: More Fatima drama and a runway lesson at the firehall. Please God, let there be some light!

Because It is the Greatest. Show. Ever.

I admit it. I've been nervous about posting about Lost. Mostly because there is no point in recapping what is the most f-ed up hour of awesomest TV out there.

In fact, in keeping with the time/space discontinuum theme of the show, I can safely argue it is/was/will be the greatest show of all time.

For the, uh, like, 99.9% of you who don't watch the show, go out and rent the first two seasons. And watch the episodes back to back until the wee hours of the morning.

Blow your brain out with all the madness of the island.

Remain strong when season one starts to get sort of boring, and when your butt falls asleep during season two and you're starting to doubt what the point is, stay faithful. The finale will be so satisfying you will wonder how it is possible that you missed it the first time round.

Then, hold tight for season three. Because this season is so tongue-swelling, eye-rolling, am-I-having-a-seizure-or-did-I-just-pee-my-pants-in-sheer-Lost-joy, that I sometimes worry that life's value will be reduced when episodes stop airing.

So True

Love and Consequences, the memoir of a girl growing up with gangs in South LA, was written by Margaret B. Jones and published by Penguin last week to good reviews.

Yesterday it was revealed that Ms. Jones is not an Native American-Caucasian who was raised by an African American foster mother. In fact, Ms. Jones is Ms. Seltzer, a 33-year old creative writing student who attended a private school in Valley.

Ms. Seltzer's outing is good timing in the sense that it follows on the heels of Misha Deonseca's confession that her childhood Holocaust memoir, Misha: A Memoir of the Holocaust Years, was made up. Hey, Seltzer might have lied about black gang members but at least she didn't try to capitalize on the Holocaust!

Ms. Seltzer's outing is also bad timing in the sense that the American media is already obsessed with a certain white women supposedly spreading false narratives about a black man (cough, Hillary, cough Muslim rumours). Do we need further fodder for the mass media's barely concealed contempt for us white girls?

For years readers have been enamoured with true tales of hardship and overcoming. The bloggers at Jezebel have put together a great summary of the cultural phenomenon.

Over at the LA Times, Tim Rutten has chosen to consider the recent flush of fake memoirs and blames not the under-funded publishing industry but rather the narcissistic tendencies of American culture that promotes an ever-increasing appetite for stories of victimhood.

In fact, if you flip through the channels these days, all you'll find is victims; the bread and butter of successful franchises like Law and Order and CSI is the endless variations of abuse that can be affected against a human. Perhaps our cultural obsession with forensics is not about science or the gross-out factor of a cadaver's ribs being peeled open but rather our growing unease borne from our fear that the only authentic experience we will ever know is the one that will kill us.