ML readers know I’m a big fan of Mr. Rabin’s work. He recently started a great monthly feature at the A.V. Club called The Silly Little Show-Biz Book Club. Here’s a little intro to the series:
Reading has taken on a lot of unfair, unfortunate associations through the years. Through no fault of its own, reading has become associated with intelligence, knowledge, book-learning, libraries, colleges, librarians, and education. I’m here to tell you, that’s all a bunch of horseshit. To me, reading isn’t a pathway to self-actualization, or a magic ticket to a land of wonder and imagination. On the contrary, it’s nothing more than a way to waste time in the least productive manner imaginable. When I want to turn off my brain, I pick up a quickie celebrity biography or half-assed show-biz memoir instead of watching television. That’s why I am officially starting a new monthly feature, The Silly Little Show-Biz Book Club. It’s a forum to discuss the junk food of the literary universe: stupid, superficial pop ephemera destined not to outlast its fleeting cultural moment. When Axl Rose’s maid writes a lurid tell-all, I’ll be there. Wherever a half-assed boy-band has-been feels the need to sing out about his life in the pages of a ghostwritten memoir, I’ll be there. I will read all these terrible books so you don’t have to. It’s my latest attempt to transform the stupid, pointless shit I do in my free time into the stupid, pointless shit I am obligated do for my job.
His latest entry in the series is his review of Karrine “Super-Head” Steffans’ Confessions Of A Video Vixen. Here’s a brief excerpt from a passage about Karrine’s encounter with Fred Durst, with Rabin’s commentary in italics:
“Fred ordered five different entrées, just for himself. I was confused but I didn’t want to seem young and inexperienced, so I just watched his movements… He was grand, taking tiny forkfuls from each dish and repeating that move a few times. Then, just that fast, he was done, leaving the majority of the food behind. I was in awe. I had never really wasted food before, and right then I knew that one day I would be able to eat whatever I wanted, however much I wanted, and summon someone to take the plates away…With all of his tattoos, body piercing and worn way of dress Fred had an air of prestige. I silently hoped for him to want me.”
Oh, Durst wants her all right. For he is that rarest breed of man: the kind that will gladly accept a no-strings-attached blowjob from an attractive stranger. I similarly love how impressed Steffans is by Durst’s flaming douchebaggery. I just hope there was a malnourished orphan staring wistfully at Durst as he sent away plate after plate of food, more or less uneaten. He could have followed this performance by wiping his ass with a towel full of highly concentrated AIDS vaccine, then topped it off by urinating lustily into the water supply of an impoverished Indian village.
You should read his first article in the series too, a review of Rollin’ With Dre by Bruce Williams, an unauthorized account of Williams’ experience with Dr. Dre. Really funny ish.
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