I’ve been lax in my James Franco reading, and I’m a little worried now that I may have yet another distraction in the way.
You could hear the collective groan of publication-hungry (or just plain hungry) writers across America when this title dropped. I’m surprised we have yet to hear of some poor writer (again, these are literal descriptives) losing their mind at a writer’s conference and Going Postal in the only way writers can. But no reports have yet to surface of frazzled individuals running amok, covered in toiletries, and without proper caffeination shouting, “Pitch, pitch, query, query, I’ve got a synopsis for you, Snooki! Redrum! Redrum!”
Anyway, it’s sure to be a classic. I watched two episodes of Jersey Shore before coming to the conclusion that I was getting drunk watching it. Something like a contact high from the fumes emanating from the television, I think. This Snooki person–a loose term meant loosely for a loose woman–would scare Animal. And she’s “written” a book? Actually, and honestly, I’m going to be very disappointed if she didn’t write it, even if it took a dozen editors to make it readable. I wanted bronze pages, but, eh, just regular inserts. Maybe some stained pages? A wafting smell of tequila, or maybe you could light it and smoke it? Nah. It’s just a book. And one that begins like a block of cement landing in a black hole: never to be recalled, remembered, or envisioned again.
“Life was hard. But a pouf? That should be easy?”
Egad. It’s a pouf story? That’s the big set-up? Giovanni “Gia” Sputmanti is going to lead us on a charge through the battlefield of this book (where we are sure to find ourselves scarred deeply, if not maimed or wounded beyond all literary resuscitation) with a pouf?
On the first page alone, we get such great lines as “Tonight, humidity was a bitch,” and a paragraph describing the maintenance of a pouf. Oh…yay. On the second page, Gia says “Waa!” She says this. On the page. In quotations. As dialogue.
So, ok, Snooki wrote this. It’s like smelling dinner in the oven, your empty writers-stomach rolling and protesting the wait, and knowing that the bag of Cheetos are but an arm’s reach away, and will do just fine, thanks. So, in I will dive, head-first and likely to discover that the pool has no water. But there will be no shortage of fodder for the blog. James will have to wait.