Nearly a Year Out and Those Bitches Still Bug
Last February, my pal Jen and I were happy to enjoy generously offered Literary Arts tix to the Ann Patchett and Liz Gilbert show, and happier still to discover our seats were right next to two dear friends. At first glance, the Ann and Liz story sounded so appealing – the two famous authors immediately became BFFs upon meeting at a conference the previous year and decided they would communicate solely via letters (no emails, no phone calls, certainly no FBing or Twittering). What a marvelous story for two writers to tell together. So old school! So cool! So we thought.
The two perched on velvety arm chairs on the Schnitz stage and spoke briefly of their friendship, the long list of similarities they discovered about one another through their correspondence, and a bit about their writing. Then the circus came to town. Each spent the rest of the evening celebrity name dropping and so furiously stroking their egos that the spectacle quickly became a public masturbate-athon. The conversation provided absolutely zero literary intrigue heavily laced with star fucking. It was unbelievable. It was embarrassing. And, while patrons continuously left their $50+ seats in droves (the house was packed but the audience reduced itself to ghost town proportions before the program was half over), the four of us found what bubbled from the authors’ maws was absolutely riveting because it was so absurd. (“Going to yoga with Liz Gilbert is like going with Mick Jagger!” “You’re so amazing!” “No, YOU are!!” “No, YOU!!!”) Actually, it was nauseating, but we found it completely impossible to tear ourselves away.
After the performance, we went for a much needed drink, in a desperate attempt to shake off the residue from the train wreck we had witnessed. Please note that my fair ladies are three of the wittiest women I know. Jen’s a gifted writer, goat herder, cook; Char, a designer extraordinaire; Jana comes equipped with her own academic/artsy blend of savvy. They each possess talents that stretch far beyond the imaginable. They are whip-smart. They have an edge. In sum, my bitches blow doors on the publisheds we were supposed to feel honored to have seen. But the reality was we felt dirty after such a display. We were pissed off that these narcissists actually make money. We felt cheated by their game. The evening certainly fueled our ire and fire. We wished Liz could actually write and Ann could chat about something beyond her celebrity circle. And, we know full well that when we’re on stage in the name of artistic-cultural-intellectual pursuit and prowess, we won’t be tempted to be assholes or needlessly insult our audiences. We save that for the privacy of our own homes where admission is always free.
I almost forgot about this but now I’m mad as hell AGAIN. (Also, feeling faintly smug now that I know you think I have an edge.)
See my point? Errrrgh!
Ha! I’m so glad you finally got this off your chest. Had it not be for the excellent company, I think we would have had a much harder time accepting that we paid money to see this crap. I also just want to clarify a point, I learned about goat herding from Charlotte, so I, at the very least, share that title with her.
WE didn’t pay – your pal gifted us tix – and we actually thanked her profusely before we knew what we were in for. Char and Jana had to eat it ($). Snort!
Dang, we purchased subscription tix @ Literary Arts for the season so until today I’d never actually worked out the dollar amount. Now I am indignant anew. Though my ire is dampered by someone using my name and “savvy” in the same sentence. So funny that the only real line I can remember is the Mick Jagger one. I think 19 people simultaneously left on that one.
Thank you for venting on our behalf. You are the patron saint of the anti-balderdash, as EVER.
Being a barely literate ghetto single mom, I have no idea who the two insufferable hags who yakked with impunity are. At least I got that going for me. They should have paid you. A lot.
Kudos on the blog senorita!
Yeah….