Death Panel: Wal-Mart lowers the guillotine on authors and independent bookstores
Halloween is upon us again, and that means only one thing: We are a mere month away from the all-American phenomenon known as Black Friday. Yes, each year, to kick off the holiday season, millions of people will loosen their belt buckles and fight the effects of tryptophan to flood the Big Box stores in the dark of morning. They will wait in long lines, belching and blurry-eyed, for the poor schmuck with the short straw to turn the key in the lock, at which time they will trample her and each other just to get their dick beaters on a discounted Nintendo Wii.
At least, that was the Item To Die For last year. This year, they’ll be bludgeoning each other for books all because Wal-Mart—the wealthy corporation famous for keeping health insurance safely out of the reach of its under-employed workers—has unilaterally created a public option, of sorts, for readers.
Here’s how the gig went down: Last week, Wal-Mart announced it would slash the cost of certain highly anticipated hard-cover books at its online store from the suggested retail price of $25 to a much-reduced price equivalent to the amount modern-day kids receive from the Tooth Fairy. Not to be outsold, Amazon matched Wal-Mart’s $10 price on the same titles, at which point Wal-Mart called Amazon’s bluff and knocked off an additional dollar. Take that, bitches! Amazon didn’t flinch and the pissing match continued until Target bellied up to the table and, now, all three companies have called it at $8.99. Plus free shipping. Bargain-addicted shoppers are salivating. Authors are horrified.
Now, I was as startled as the next person to hear this outrageous story. They can’t be fucking serious, I thought. Wal-Mart actually sells books? To whom? Do Wal-Mart shoppers even know how to read?
Oh, I heckle the Wal-Mart shoppers. Of course, they know how to read. And now, thanks to Extreme Price Slashing, The Corporate Edition, they will be able to indulge that first-grade reading level on the cheap: The former first gal of Alaska’s Going Rogue is among the 10 or so hard-covers being offered at black-market prices. Despite the steep discount, Wal-Mart will surely make a mint after Oprah finishes dry-humping the former-governor-turned-essayist on Nov. 16.
(One note of caution to the pitbull’s foolish fans: You might think you’re getting a deal on this one, but actually you’re getting hosed—$8.99 is precisely $8.99 more than what the ghost-written tale is worth, and you’ll lose even more on your investment after your visit to the ballot box. And is it me or does the former McCain sidekick look more like a tranny with each passing day?)
Seriously though.
We’re talking eight dollars and 99 cents for seven years of research and toil and writing and cutting and crying and gnawing and lamenting and lifeblood that surely went into the gifted Barbara Kingsolver’s pending new novel, The Lacuna. This devaluation of work is a brutal injustice to the Kingsolvers and the Grishams and the Pattersons (though, for the record, the latter two aren’t exactly wading in the same talent pool as Kingsolver). Even—and I cannot believe I am going to say this—even Dan Brown and his formulaic prose deserve better than $8.99 on new releases (no comment on the vile Twilight series). After all, it’s these and a few other elite, established authors who make up the foundation for the rest of the publishing industry.
“So, consequently, you are selling off the family jewels,” David Young, CEO and Chairman of Hachette Book Group told NPR. “It’s a strange thing: Most new products entering a market are sold at a premium, not as discount….” This cannot be much incentive to these and other writers and puts the future of publishing in an even more precarious situation than it was already in.
And the scenario is even more depressing when you consider the impact of this dubious price setting on the beloved independent bookstores around the country. At risk of extinction is the proverbial little guy who already competes against the giant corporations and for whom we all like to root. According to another NPR report, booksellers purchase their inventory at a wholesale rate of roughly $12.72 (it’s unclear whether Wal-Mart, et al. have struck a better deal). Sure, there’s room to bring down the price on a newly released title. But you don’t have to be literate to know the independents can’t afford to play this game.
The line in the sand has been drawn, and it’s probably too soon to say with complete certainty what the outcome of this battle will be. But given the state of our economy—and the depth of the pain suffered by American consumers enduring flat wages, widespread furloughs, near-record unemployment, rising healthcare costs—and our unflagging appetite for the best deal on new stuff, it probably isn’t hard to guess.
The moral imperative clearly lies with the consumers, who need to carefully think this one through before throwing elbows during the upcoming shopping season. We must ask ourselves what it is we value. Do we sell our souls or enrich them? If the answer is the latter, we must either hang onto our dollars (sign up for that library card) or speak with them (hello, D.G. Wills, I’d like to order The Lacuna, please).
If we don’t, somebody’s bound to get hurt. And that somebody is all of us suckers the big conglomerates are counting on as they secure their monopoly and world dominance over—oh—only everything.
Mwahahahahahaha.
Haha.
Ha.
(Sigh.)
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
And I finally weigh in on Anita Tedaldi
I’m late to the party but that’s because I’ve been mulling it over and doing a little background research.
Better late than never, though. So, I’ve begun over here.
There will be more.
What are you doing this weekend? How about next?
If you live locally and are dying to find out more about sin that takes place in the corners of an ordinary day, please come check out this art show. It just so happens that six of my photographs were selected for display. I know: It’s shocking that any of my work could be considered sinful in the least.
The artist’s reception takes place on Saturday from 3-5 p.m. Come say hello. My standing rule applies: No tomato throwing. This show is in a private residence and I would hate for the owner to have to clean up the splatters.
What not to wear: Michelle Obama must stay the fashion course
I love Vera Wang. As I type this, I’m wearing a silver-white, floor-length nightgown by the designer, an impulse purchase made a few years back (it was on sale!). It’s got a smidgen of black-lace piping at the bodice and shoulder straps nearly as thin as dental floss. It’s simple and elegant and doesn’t make any noise when I slip out of it and let it drop to the floor—which I might have to do soon because I’m pissed at Wang. It’s why I recently decided to pair my gorgeous nightie with my husband’s hideous UGG slippers.
Earlier this month, as Michelle Obama toured Europe in garb designed by various no-names, mixed with pieces from the J. Crew Collection, Wang joined the voices of elite designers whining about being snubbed by the magnetic first lady.
“I love seeing young designers and their vision and how they grow and all of that,” Wang said in an April 2 story in Women’s Wear Daily, as if it’s so quaint to be an up-and-comer. “On the other hand, of course, I wish she would consider some of us, because I think we also have contributions to make.”
In the same story, Oscar de la Renta—a Laura Bush favorite—practically swooned with the vapors when Obama wore a sweater to meet the queen. “You don’t… go to Buckingham Palace in a sweater.” Oy! The nerve of a girl with working-class roots who dares to wear some anonymously stitched schmatte.
With her WWD article, writer Bridget Foley provides these upper-echelon designers with a bullhorn and a runway-shaped pulpit from which to air their grievances.
“I hope and believe that this is just a moment,” offers Donna Karan. The successful designer hopes “to be able to dress her, and not only dress her but address her, sit down—I’m interested in her totality as a woman.” Obviously, Michelle choosing the clothes of more obscure, struggling designers doesn’t already exemplify her totality-ness.
Foley’s piece is accompanied by an image of a model in Ralph Lauren, with Michelle Obama’s head Photoshopped onto it, illustrating how much better the FLOTUS would look if only she had the expert guidance of the establishment. And no hips. And a size zero waist. And skinny white legs.
The article highlights the elitism of both the already-arrived designers and the fashion industry. I heard the author’s voice in my head as a faux Hepburn-style drawl pointing out that Mrs. Obama could—nay, should—help the ailing fashion industry, which is in crisis “[l]ike the auto and financial industries.” Isn’t that sublime?
Rather than opting for clothes by unknown designers like Jason Wu and Isabel Toledo, Foley sneers, Obama should choose “major players—those whose collective vicissitudes play into the economy in a considerable way and whose individual swings of fortune impact the lives of countless working people up and down the supply chain.”
Anyway, if she can’t knock it off with the altruism toward unknown artists, she could at least support the GOP proposal of sweeping tax cuts for the wealthy. Surely this gesture would show her compassion for the most prestigious of the rebuffed industry folks, people like “Ralph, Calvin, Oscar, Marc, Vera, Tommy and Isaac.” I admit it: I had the urge to thwack the writer upside her Hérmes-wrapped, first-name-dropping head with my Mizrahi-for-Target hobo bag.
Citing the almost immediate sell-out of the beaded J.Crew cardigan Obama wore in London, Foley asked, “might not a chic sighting of the First Lady in Ralph Lauren or Donna Karan prod some women to stroll through Saks Fifth Avenue or Neiman Marcus?” Some women? Mmm-hmm. But not the everyday woman, and that, I think, is Obama’s point.
Foley lives in a parallel universe if she thinks the women who wander the halls of Saks or Neiman are going to be what saves the “ailing” industry. The fact of the matter is more women can afford J. Crew (and knockoffs) than the alternative, and many of those who can afford designer labels are opting for the cheaper options if only because it’s hip to be thrifty. What the author seems to not understand is that Michelle Obama is practicing what she preaches. The economy is circling the drain, and Obama’s realism is a salve for working people who can no longer afford (if they ever really could in the first place) the lifestyle that WWD is peddling.
“I think I understand what [Obama and her advisers] are doing,” de la Renta told Foley. “But I don’t think that is the right message at this particular point….” But it’s exactly the right message at this particular point. Americans would surely be making more noise than a few miffed designers if Michelle Obama embraced the expensive and gaudy let-them-eat-cake tastes of Cindy McCain. We rejected the ostentatious, frozen-faced, stiff-haired first lady model last November. Outfits that cost an AIG bonus would not quell the current wave of populist outrage, and Michelle Obama knows this.
What’s more is that her effort is not contrived. Sure, it’s mindful of the times in which we live, but it’s also appropriate for who she is: A strong, independent, risk-taking, fit, sexy, smart, self-confident woman who isn’t afraid to dress like the commoners.
Or get dirty like them. Last Thursday, she appeared covered in dirt in the White House garden. And while Vera Wang might gasp at house slippers worn with one of her negligées, I’d be willing to bet she’d need smelling salts if her $1,100 Sequined Shoulder Tank and $800 Narrow Pants had to withstand earthworm juice.
I hope Obama will ignore the crocodile tears of the fashion-industry heavies and continue to go her own way, showing her awesome arms and supporting the new kids on the block.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
It’s my prerogative: A little change of heart means big changes at home
On March 17, Nadya Suleman brought home two of her eight premature babies. The professionally plumped and chiseled Angelina look-alike is so well-known that further description of her tale here is unnecessary. She’s incited a deafening level of disgust and outrage, all of which has been rightfully redirected to the more relevant demon, AIG, finally purging Suleman from above the fold. Except for right now, right here.
Other than one brief mention in a column a few weeks back, I have not written on the subject because, truth be told, I was deeply conflicted over the matter. Sure, my knee-jerk reaction was one of snorting indignation. But the increasingly bizarre story of Ms. Suleman opened an old wound for me, one with which I’ve been quickly coming to terms.
My initial and sustained anger, as I’ve come to realize, stemmed from jealousy. To be clear, I’m not jealous over her giant brood: Having a total of 14 children is tempting mental illness (having eight at once is tromping directly into straightjacket territory). It’s not the overwhelming numbers that make me green with envy. What makes me resentful, what makes my heart pulse with a dark, suppressed longing is that Suleman—however she chose to do it—got to experience pregnancy. This broke-ass woman with no moral compass got to carry and give birth to eight beautiful babies, and I didn’t even get to do it with one because—and here I’ll just come out and say it—I’m barren.
One night, in May of 2004, moments after Sam had stuck my ass with a three-inch syringe filled with the not-so-much-of-a-miracle-conception-drug Clomid, the doctor called. I was still rubbing the stinging injection site with one hand, holding the phone to my ear with the other as he told me the results of a blood test, which revealed my eggs to be cooked. They’re scrambled. Over-hard. Custardized. Were you thinking about having an omelet for breakfast?
I’d truly believed I’d made my peace with the fact that pregnancy would not be one of life’s experiences I would be checking off the list. And it’s beyond difficult to admit now, after having lambasted Suleman to anyone who would listen, that she—a woman I still consider to be a delusional, egomaniacal, self-important opportunist—had something that I didn’t. Generally speaking, I do not want what I haven’t got; it’s sort of a tenet of my personal ideology. To be inflamed with jealousy by such a person is humiliating to the seventh power.
Adoption has been my I-haven’t-missed-out-on-a-thing, self-preservation decoy. So there are no words to describe how small I felt as I began to take the proverbial hard look. But feeling microscopic upon admitting the internal volcano to myself was nothing compared to what I felt when I brought it up with my husband. To say there’s been an upheaval in our home is to say that Rush Limbaugh is looking a little ruddy and puffy lately.
The problem boils down to this: I want to have a baby.
Let me revise that: I need to have a baby. I have to have a baby. And when I finally said it out loud, when I finally spoke the words after a tearful dinner at Corvette Diner, while Ruby obliviously threw fists-full of Bazooka bubble gum in the air above us, and with The Beatles carelessly bouncing “She loves you, yah-yah-yah!” as a backdrop to the tectonic shift happening right there in the milkshake- and mustard-splattered booth—well. I was breathless as my husband simply stared at me like a mortgage-backed securities buyer watching the foreclosure sign go up in his front yard.
This unhinging desire that’s thrown the rotation of our life out of its natural orbit is the byproduct of two months’ worth of emergency marriage-counseling sessions. We’re no strangers to counseling, but I think I speak for both of us when I say we never imagined we’d be back on the couch for something like this.
We pretty quickly dismissed the idea of separating, so most of the brutal work involved Sam coming to terms with what will need to happen for us to have another child. And while it’s not lost on me that the money we’re throwing at these extremely expensive twice-weekly sessions could be saved for the IVF round we’re going to do next year, I know how badly we need to be talking about this not-exactly-minor decision.
The counselor has said Sam is “abnormal” when it comes to endurance and tolerance of stress. It’s really quite startling how much he can bend, compromise, forgive and accept. I don’t know a single other person on the planet who would put up with my mind-changing madness and emotional roller-coastering. It’s because of love and flexibility that he’s agreed to have his vasectomy reversed in late July and with the use of donor eggs we’re purchasing from a little-known organization in Zimbabwe, the Petrie dish mash-up and IVF protocol can begin by next summer.
This has not, by any means, been an easy decision, but I’ve embraced my need. I’ve finally admitted that I must experience a baby (or several—it is IVF, after all) rolling and stretching in my belly. I need to feel my breasts purpled and engorged, to have stretch marks map my body as proof of my loving gift, to retain water, have my ankles swell, to suffer indigestion, uncontrollable gas, loss of bladder control and hemorrhoids. And I can’t wait to experience nine glorious months of orgasm-filled pregnancy sex, followed by years of the little one(s) suckling at my teats. The way I see it, Nadya Suleman doesn’t have the market cornered on all of these goodies. If she can do it, so can I.
(As published on April 1 in San Diego CityBeat.)
Extra! Extra! Read the news if you dare
So much for “Kum Ba Yah.” My affinity for spreading goodwill poppycock and hopeful hooey has officially gone the way of jobs in this country. So long, I say, to the days of slowing on the freeway to politely let a Mustang-driving, non-indicating co-ed with French tips cut me off simply because I’m inspired to be better than I really am. Screw it.
I’m not better. I’m small, and I’m angry. Bitch can get in line!
But it’s not so much that I’m angry as it is that I’m psychotic—not unlike the chick who nearly ran me off the road the other day, which was probably why we got into our screaming match. Through closed windows. At 65 mph. I want to think this woman was listening to the same story on NPR about the Yes on 8ers suing to keep their campaign contributions private (cowards) and that indignant outrage blocked her blind-spot. It’s more likely she was listening to Keith Urban on KSON, a nearly as forgivable explanation for her unbecoming behavior.
I’ve been on a ballistic tear for the last week. In one 36-hour period, I went from ecstatic to exasperated more times than a 3-year-old whose parent caves to the french fries but holds the line against dessert. I’m certain that the never-ending, modern-day news cycle is detrimental to one’s health. It should probably have the Surgeon General’s warning on it. Last week alone was so deadly, it should be offered on the menu at The Heart Attack Grill.
On the other side of the world, a man in a fancy dress and Prada shoes un-excommunicated a bishop who denies the existence of the Holocaust, a shocking move coming from the kind of upstanding organization that enables and excuses pedophilia.
Here at home, one of that organization’s members—a vile woman famous for her stint on a reality show, who now shrieks from a pulpit called The View—smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand last week. Golly gee whiz, I di’unt know I was pregnant again! Silly girl thought she was suffering from something called “electionitis.”
Unfortunately for the planet, there is no inflammation of her election. Rather, she and her footballer husband will be bringing their third little Republican into the world come August. People: We need to make like the Kucha tribe and vote her off the island.
My head was already doing that crazy Linda Blair thing when I read about the financially bankrupt mother of six giving birth to eight more puppies children. Too many expletives exploded in my brain at this one, but on behalf of the 800,000 children in foster care, I’d like to extend my heartfelt, curse-free congratulations. I’d also like to point out that we don’t need funding for family planning in the stimulus bill; what we need is funding for stupid-people lobotomies, and the first beneficent should be the doctor who implanted a dodge-ball team’s worth of embryos.
The mental fireworks display continued as I learned that U.S. automakers—the ones who just absconded with my great-great-grandchild’s college fund—are suing the government over the proposed increase in emissions standards; that the USDA is now headed by a disciple of Monsanto, the mega-corporation that is doing evil, horrid things to our food; and that California is facing a drought of historic proportions.
I did have two tiny reprieves from stroking out altogether: Obama had to remind people that—hellooo?—he won (ha ha ha ha!), and then he gave a moving speech after signing the Lilly Ledbetter Act.
In your face, Supreme Court! Alas, the mini-strokes resumed because even though Americans have ushered intelligence and reason into vogue, a New York madam connected to Eliot Spitzer was sentenced to jail time while the ex-gov gets off. Again. Yes, women can sue for disparity in pay, but we still make 75 cents on the dollar to our male counterparts and the johns still walk away.
Meanwhile, there’s disgraced gay pastor Ted Haggard still living a lie. There’s Blago and his hair and his uncomfortable goodbye. And then there are the Republicans. These dopes haven’t missed a step in the race to re-brand their party. (To be fair, they deserve some credit: They’ve cornered the market on cynicism. I’m subsisting on crumbs, here—though I’m doing pretty well with the scraps, don’t you think?) The GOP—God love ’em—they took Obama’s talk of transparency to heart. They waved their magic wand, put on some blackface and look! Look at them! They’re the picture of inclusiveness! Just like women who once supported Hillary ran to support the wolf slaughterer, so will black Americans flock to the Republican Party?
Mmm-hmm. Yeah. I don’t know if they’ve heard the saying, but someone ought to tell them that you can’t put makeup on a pig. Sure, they can dress it up, but their obstructionism speaks louder than does the visual of a black man at the helm.
The scales have tipped since the days following Jan. 20, 2009. That higher angel of mine has gone missing and is probably too afraid to come back. I’d like to say I’m going on a headline diet, that I’ll take only small portions of HuffPo and Maddow, DailyKos and The Daily Dish. I’d like to promise that when I get cravings, I’ll binge on The Daily Puppy, but I’m more likely to sup on Fuck You, Penguin. The fact is, I hate diets and I’m a gluttonous wonk. I do promise to try to keep my rage in check. But just in case, I suggest you indicate when you decide to merge into my lane.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
Give it to Mikey, he’ll try anything
Poor Michael Phelps. The guy can’t get a break since he was caught making out with a bong. I find the whole thing to be so utterly ridiculous that I almost want to friend him on Facebook. And I’m not even a fan! Sure, I was enthralled with him back at The Cube. But each time he opens his mouth or walks around with his hip bones jutting into my eye-space, I find myself cringing just a little.
Still. Who cares if the guy smokes weed? What is the big deal? As a friend of a friend so eloquently points out here, he isn’t shooting EPO. Or other people. Sports hero or not, this strikes me as a relatively minor offense. Of course, it’s just weed and I believe it should be legalized (imagine the influx of money into our economy if it were regulated). This misstep will likely cost him lucrative sponsorships but if Britney Spears can come back from the brink, so to can Phelps.
The eternal class reunion: The guilty pleasure of online social networking
“The past is the past for a reason,” Sam said when I became defensive about my new weapon of mass procrastination. At this point in our ongoing Is Facebook Valuable or Just Ridiculous debate, I was ashamed enough to hide my activity by inconspicuously slamming my laptop shut each time he entered the room. Lacking a solid defense of the social-networking website—and having decided that my Internet presence was plentiful enough—I deactivated my account shortly after I joined. I then mounted my high horse and began a smear campaign.
I called it Fakebook and, like Madeline did to the tiger at the zoo, I pooh-poohed anyone who admitted involvement. I turned my nose up at cyber snow globes and snowball fights and good karma. I guffawed at poking—I generally never guffaw at poking—and rolled my eyes when certain ladies of book club tried to pass it off as a work tool. Riiight. More like a pretend-to-work tool. I sniffed at the sad habit of collecting ex-lovers, those people who shine brightest as a memory but instead come to occupy real estate as smiling thumbnails, babies wrapped in their arms. See how happy he is that he didn’t choose me? I’m so happy for him!
But when you point the finger, there are always three others pointing back at you. Did Jesus say that? Or was it Hippocrates? Either way, one could be blind from birth and still see where this is going. It’s a good thing I’m ravenous for humble pie.
Wishing to track down a certain someone (not an ex), I answered the siren call of Facebook beckoning me back. In no time, I became practically Pavlovian upon seeing “1 friend request” up in the right-hand corner. The anticipation was like Christmas morning each time, even if my growing group of friends consisted mainly of people with whom I work or with whom I drink after work or with whom I drink while bemoaning the trials of parenting and work.
Things were going swimmingly until I logged on one day to find my friend tally was down by one. Some so-called friend hovered their cursor and—pfffft!—excised me. I was instantly offended. How rude! I thought. How could they? And then, What’s wrong with me? Why don’t they like me? And finally, I don’t even know which friend de-friended me. I’m pretty sure I moved through all five stages of grief on the day my friend count dropped from 67 to 66.
Perhaps I’m not only a closeted Facebook hater, but a narcissist as well: Researchers at the University of Georgia have found a correlation between egomania and the slickness of the profile picture, the number of friends and the number of wall posts an individual has. Certainly, double-digit friend count is not winning me any popularity contests, and there are only a few scribbles my wall. But I’m also not posting any photos of myself snapped after a night of sake-induced vomiting, either. Call me solipsistic, but I am not putting that photo up.
The sting of rejection faded and while I haven’t found the person I reactivated for, I’ve been gathering friends from present and past. Some of my Flickr peeps and blog readers have followed me to Facebook, and my self-declared “#1 Fan” sought me out there, too (blush). I even feel semi-important to my writer idols (Mr. Morford, is that a banana in your pocket or…). And while I find the application useful in a (casual) professional capacity, I’ve derived many-a smile from forehead-slapping connections with people who disappeared from my life because—that’s life.
I found two girlfriends with whom I spent a holiday season wrapping gifts at a department store. At 18, we spent most of our money on deeply discounted clothes and cheap beer, memories dormant until I saw their dazzling faces on my computer. Friends from the wild summer of ’89 are doing their thing, collectively and individually, and it’s been fun to reminisce. Sneaking into the Salt Lake Country Club for a midnight skinny-dip was a fleshy blur (I think cops were involved at the end), and the fact that I now reside amongst college woo-hooers is obvious karma for the endless party on Emerson Avenue.
But all in all—and here’s where I alienate any potential friends—there’s a Chevy Chase Grand Canyon vibe to the rekindling. Like the scene in National Lampoon’s Vacation, when the Griswalds peer out across the desert expanse for all of four bouncing seconds before bolting, on Facebook you do the 20-year recap and then—?
Opinions about Facebook abound, and mine are still mixed because, let’s face it, it’s weird! I know someone who was friend requested by a dead woman. Someone else I know—in real life—read and re-read a comment by one of his friends who up and died mere hours after updating his status, his static page offering the eerie possibility of future posts. And no matter how we resist it, those six narrow degrees of separation may inevitably lead us back to the proverbial Mr. Big, who is in the past because that is the only place he belongs. No happy profile picture will ever make you feel better about that ending.
As my best friend, a social-networking holdout said, voicing an anti-Facebook smugness more pointed than mine, “If you’re not in my life now, why would I want you to be there on Facebook? I already put you out once.” The Value Debate rages on with her input. But she’ll see soon enough: I learned during book club that she finally caved to the siren’s cry, too. After hearing familiar deactivation threats, I told her I’d better receive a friend request by 3 p.m. the next day or It. Is. Over.
I logged in 30 minutes later and, what do you know, but I saw those blue words that have me hooked: “1 friend request.”
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
Why didn’t I think of this?
Have you read the one about 22-year-old Natalie Dylan, the San Diego woman who is auctioning off her virginity to the highest bidder? I read this article—or some version of it—last night and initially, I thought, How gauche! But then my sensible mind kicked in and I thought, Forget the Chargers! San Diegans finally have something we can be genuinely proud of!
Good. For. Her. It’s her virginity, let her sell it if she wants to. She’s already received offers in excess of one million dollars and given that her stated goal is to pay for college, it’s beginning to sound like she’ll be able to get her PhD (or multiples, should she so desire) and then retire to a cliff-side bungalow in Italy when she is unable to find a job in this horrendous economy.
I totally would have auctioned off my virginity had the internet been around in 1986. And I’m guessing—given that I was sixteen at the time of my ho-hum deflowering, an underage cherry ripe for the picking by men who would purchase a young girl’s hymen—that I could have easily garnered at least as much as the beautiful, savvy, enterprising Natalie Dylan. Then again, I was hardly beautiful or savvy or enterprising back then, so even the early advent of the internet would likely have been useless to me in this capacity. I would have simply used it to track down some LSD.
Anyway. This isn’t commentary on Ms. Dylan as much as it is a commentary on men and the lengths they will go to for fucking. I hope Natalie laughs all the way to the podium to accept her diploma(s).