LaHipster thinks that the main difference between the two of us is that she reads The New Yorker and I read New York. "They're not that different," I said. "They're only off by two letters."
Last week, New York brought us the story of Lillo Brancato. This week, I did a double take on the Books page to see that - zut alors!- Macaulay Culkin has just published a novel. Thank you, thank you New York Magazine for bringing this to my attention.
Macaulay Culkin and I are the same age, yet while he was making Home Alone, I was playing Tap Dancing Orphan #3 in a community theater production of Annie, so you might conclude that my fascination with the former child star is pure Schadenfreude. However I assure you that my attention and my affections are legitimate. Culkin's thin quasi-autobiographical PoMo conceptual novel-type thing has been getting poor reviews, but rest assured, I'm rooting for you, Mac!
Macaulay, are you sure Michael Jackson never touched you in your private parts? Are you sure? And then, oh man, remember when Mac got married to that girl we had never heard of, and we were all like, you can't get married Macaulay, you're only 17, and then we were like, oh damn, you're emancipated from your krunk-ass parents, I guess you can get married! And then came the divorce....
Macaulay, I think you're cute. In another life, one in which Mila Kunis did not exist, we could have been a happy couple, catching some off-broadway gold downtown and raising money for the democratic party by hosting events in our loft, but this is not that life. And that parting shot you made about Scott Baio really hurt. Why can't all my boys just get along?
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