Last night, I went to a Chris Hadfield lecture at the Winspear. He talked about global decisionmaking, how to make small choices every day to move in the direction of your dreams, and the importance of art and music to society. It was genuinely moving. I remembered the couple of Carl Sagan books sitting unread on my shelves, and determined that I’d read one of them next.
Instead I read Chelsea Handler.
I have no idea why I did that.
A friend loaned me this book, a collection of anecdotes about Chelsea Handler’s one night stands, a few months ago. This isn’t the kind of book you can loan to just anybody; unlike Alain de Botton, it does read like Letters to Penthouse. Reading this didn’t spark in me any desire to read more of Handler’s books or to learn more about her comedy. Instead, it instilled in me a deep and abiding dislike of her personality.
I mean, more power to her. One night stands are not bad things to have, after all, and sexual openness is something we should all strive towards. It’s just that she seems like an awful person. She trivializes matters of race and driving under the influence, and frankly, she isn’t that funny, in spite of her constant self-deprecation. I think this book could appeal more to someone who was a fan of her comedy, or at the very least familiar with her. I was neither, and I found a lot of this offensive.
I’m going to read something better now.
Books read: 6