Did I ever admit that I liked The Devil Wears Prada? Because that is a fact about me that I no longer find embarrassing. There’s something about the state in which I have suddenly found myself (telling my puppy to “poop for Mama,” listening to my boyfriend be like “Oh, I’m Jia, I’m anti-establishment, look how much I’m over my sorority“) and the recent slew of head-in-ass articles like the GQ “Middlebrow” piece that has just been sapping my energy for any type of snarky judgment about likes and dislikes.
Clearly, if you have read this blog, I am no stranger to judging people by their tastes, but it’s a flawed science. Lately I’ve been reading Lauren Weisberger, watching Workaholics and eating two-thirds of my meals from the $1.50 taco truck parked next to the biker bar. Am I, at my core, just a ditzy ex-frat boy turned Mexican construction worker? The answer is simply no. I’m inching towards the conclusion that the soft idiocy of America’s tastes is determined by the simple fact that everyone works too hard. Sometimes you just want to buy a taco with your pocket change, take off your pants, and watch dumb stuff.
I will say that I hated Lauren Weisberger’s next two books after Prada, Everyone Worth Knowing and (especially) Chasing Harry Winston. Similarly, I am going to hate the chick flicks they turn into (they’ve been optioned by Universal already), and the “comic” actresses cast for how well their oversize facial features mask collagen implants, actresses who will have to fall down in heels approximately 7x over the course of the movie so that audiences will find them approachable.
But Weisberger’s latest, Last Night at Chateau Marmont, is quite entertaining and here’s why. The heroine, Brooke, is a nutritionist who works two jobs to support her sexy undiscovered rockstar husband (who is “artsy” and, naturally, forsaking a massive old-money fortune except for the house in the Hamptons). Julian gets discovered, the tabloid rumors start flying (he’s fucking everyone! she’s jealous like a shrew!), and Brooke is delightfully normal and predictable about it. Normal unfortunately meaning that she spends the whole book fighting insecurity and jealousy, but to be fair Julian turns into an asshole, both telling her to lose weight for the paparazzi and also screwing around with someone fatter than her. Can you imagine? Bottom line, it’s really enjoyable to read a book with a narrator who is openly like:
“Would it kill Julian to give her a little attention? ‘I think I might be pregnant,’ she announced.
‘You are not,’ he replied automatically.
‘How do you know? I could be. Then what would you do?’ She managed a faux sniffle.
He smiled and finally–finally!–put down the magazine. ‘Oh, sweetheart, come here. I’m sorry, I should have realized earlier. You want to cuddle.’
