London in New York

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt.
-Mark Twain

I was going to refrain from commenting on Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino, the Jersey Shore cast member who by some accounts is generating for himself upwards of $5 million dollars per year for his role as the leading Guido on the MTV show. While the “man” is somewhat of a humorous personality, that he is now on a road show hawking his book “A Guide to Creeping on Chics” and even getting credible reviews by mainstream media outlets is disturbing, in and of it self, whether or not said reviews are positive. [If I invented a bag of shit would I get an interview on a major network?]

Only in America can a guy who can’t read a book write a book. In fairness to Sorrentino he does have an etched six pack to go along with his mastery of some catchy phrases like:  GTL, Grenade and assorted others.  In a soundbite culture that is perhaps all one truly needs to emerge from the masses to be a veritable leader of them, whether you are a politician and wannabe Presidential contender or a Guido hawking his ‘literary’ works on how to scam the opposite sex.

You know, it used to actually mean something to write a book. To become a ‘published author’ signified some kind of standing or intellectual pedigree and maybe suggested that the “writer” had some wisdom to impart. Authors had an agenda to share a message, to educate, enlighten and elevate the masses with their prose. The bar has now, however, been lowered so significantly that we do not see the difference between art and a fart.

And the book, what has become of the book or a published literary work but a veritable calling card for a celebrity culture swimming if not bathing in its own sewage; one screaming loudly in a Bethenny Frankel like shriek that “I have arrived”: I am not a licensed nutritionist (possibly even a scam artist) nor truly even a working chef, nor do I even follow sound dietary practices myself,  allegedly having gotten plastic surgery immediately after giving birth to regain my Kid Creole and the [Plastic] Coconuts figure, eating carrots, while looking like I take amphetamines and pitch  Skinny Girl Margarita’s as the cure all. Nevertheless, I pose as  a paradigm of healthful living and nutritional expertise.  I am celebrated like both because I am a skinny girl with big beautiful fake knockers whose original branding and logo seem strikingly similar to Skinny Bitch diet book and Skinny &  The City (although hardly totally original itself, e.g. Sex & the City) by nutritionist,  Tanya Zuckerbrot of the The F-Factor Diet,  but I have a certification from The Natural Gourmet Institute and will also flash my well sculpted ass at book signings.  You will embrace my celebrity for I am followed by thousands upon thousands of hopelessly misguided twitiots (i.e., know nothings) around the nation. In  the words of Bethenny herself:

I’m not a doctor, I’m not a nutritionist, and I’m not a fitness expert. And, most important, I am not in charge of you. But I am a natural foods chef, a dedicated lover of delicious food, and a healthy, thin person.

In this cult of PR, it is in many respects considered disrespectful to question or otherwise attempt to undermine the stature of brands created by forces of commerce even while America is being fed a steady diet of its own excrement in containers labeled Fine Beluga Caviar. In fairness, however, to publishing houses what are they to do? Publish only those books of a certain character when the character, intellect and attention span of a nation suggest that Crayons ought to be included with what they truly wish to read and likely purchase?  I am not so elitist to suggest that these enterprises pursue business policies or strategies which might ultimately insure their own demise. People do have to eat you know, pay for rent, food and other things necessary to sustain themselves on this planet. My standards are not so high, I do not require a Croque-Monsieur with a glass of Veuve Clicquot;  Peanut Butter and Jelly on Oroweat with a glass of 2% milk is fine with me. The thing is that what I am being asked to eat,  does not look like peanut butter, even if it is of a similar color and texture and though it has nuts, it also has corn.  Call me crazy, but I just can not even attempt to eat it without my gag reflex engaging.

At this point, if I don’t publish ‘The Great American Novel’ of our time in  this sea of mediocrity it is truly an embarrassment of mammoth proportion. I might as well say fuggedaboutit and drink myself to death with Skinny Girl Margarita’s when a knucklehead who’s entire vocabulary consists of yo, smashing, GTL and grenade not only published a book before me but may end up on the New York Times Best Seller list, while also being regularly  seen on Red Carpets throughout America as prolifically as the woman who spent several years as a Bravo Real Housewife from New York City, despite being neither real (e.g., the Coconuts) or a housewife.  Although in fairness to the humorous comedic actress, Bethenny Frankel is from New York City and a Scorpio like me and I have to have a degree of respect for her hustle, even if she would walk the Red Carpet at the opening of a zipper while claiming she invented the Margarita. Fake Coconuts or not, fact is the camera likes her as it does ‘The Situation’ and I can critique but will limit the ‘hatorade’ (even if believe that UNICO has a right to question whether the show represents an unflattering caricature of the values of Italian-Americans), since I operate on the premise that obtaining wealth should not only be for the already wealthy people.

Critics will suggest that my lack of millions or ability to come up with something resembling the success of Sorrentino or Frankel illustrates a degree of jealousy on my part and is evidence of my own relative inadequacy as a man or marketer; and even more so an inability to  capitalize on opportunities that those better than me have recognized. On some level that is a fair critique, even if my mind does not operate that way.  My parents provided for me in a manner that was proper, at times comfortable but not so much that I felt entitled. I was always grateful and still am for even the smallest trinkets, gifts or evidence of affection. Thus, I  did not grow up so much in affluence in a financial sense than in a manner where I appreciated that which was rich of the spirit and the mind.   Perhaps because of who and what my father and mother were I aspired to a higher standard, however unrealistic, that were I to become a leader of any kind in our society, whether a published author, respected commentator or legal advisor that what I did emanated from a place that they would not be embarrassed for me or for themselves,  among the intelligentsia, professors, intellectuals, community leaders, pastors, priests and rabbi’s.  Having there be character or integrity behind my brand is of greater importance than whatever quick buck I could make off of marketing myself in an insincere or fraudulent manner.  In this day and age, a fool hardy posture, I willingly concede. The price of a commitment to one’s evolution is that one may frequently or maybe even intermittently engage in a degree of introspection and existential inquiry that most avoid.

Maybe I was wrong, if the only goal was financial success marketing products or ideas that lacked integrity, I should have stayed in Queens or Brooklyn, never learned to walk upright, consult a thesaurus, attempt to master ‘The Elements of Style’ (which I still have not,obviously)  or even bothered with English Lit courses at Boston University or worked on my speech at the University of Pennsylvania Law School. I could have simply worked on my abs and my tan, stayed in Sheepshead Bay (see also: Brooklyn Cigars) left for the Jersey Shore, maybe even become the ‘King of Corona’ with “me and Julio down by the schoolyard.” You know the one, near P.S. 14 and the Corona Ice King. Maybe then by now I would have published my life’s master work,  ”Getting Ripped, Laid and Paid: Tales of Shagging Guidettes & JAPS, Getting Bombed & Crusin in my Vette.”  Instead, I may publish “Sexless in the City”: The Guide for Intellects Who Can’t Get Any in a Sea of Celebutards. Somewhere along the way I turned into Miranda Hobbes (i.e., Cynthia Nixon), from Sex and the City; I cannot even enjoy the prospect of sleeping with women who lack intellect, charm or manners.  Such a woman is for me, in the parlance of ‘the Situation’ the type of ‘grenade’ I prefer to bypass even if she is pretty.

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