Rethinking Again
I need to assume that familiar head-in-hand-on-knee position — the dude posing atop the Gates of Hell — and get back to writing fiction. This current affairs stuff occupies too many brain cycles and I only have so many.
First, the piece on Medium about a dust up over Gray’s Anatomy and how after she said, she said, he may have said, but she claimed he did, it boiled down to a brouhaha best defined as theatrical types acting badly. You know, those Hollywood ruckuses that get every gossip journalist leaping over the bodies to cover the stories. Which I, for one, hadn’t heard about and have a time thinking was important once I did. If you need to refer to the article: The Audacity of Ellen Pompeo. Had to be a major scandal judging by the headline.
I’m overlooking the claim of racism mainly because the only people who’ve took note were the Hollywood gossip columnists. True or not, I rather think Denzel (we call him that, since Washington is confusing the man with the place or that other Washington, or the man they named it for) and Denzel has better things to do than take offense. Even racists make an exception for Denzel; what’s not to like?
Rough business, that acting gig. And I thought only academics fought over small consequences — Signum Freud’s narcissism of small differences might well apply.
Then the second piece: Why I’m Leaving Mumford & Sons, posted by Winston Marshall, a former son of Mumford (is that the correct identifier?) about how he caught flack by one wing because they thought he was supporting the other wing, when really, he was just stepping into the doodoo dumped by a hack journalist, best I can tell.
You’d think being in the public eye like that, Marshall would not a) tweet into a shit storm like Andy Ngo in Portland; b) had his feelings hurt so he’d quit the band, and c) get trolled by halfwits? None of it computes.
I thought they lectured in Rock & Roll prep school about not stepping in the poopy, and if you do, just keep walking ’cause it will wear off eventually. Maybe Marshall overslept and missed that class.
These days, anybody who’s not already pissed seems to be digging around for something they can become pissed about. What the fuck, people? Is there nothing more important than commenting on silly people writing about silly people?
Oh.
I need to get back to my novel where the characters are like Normal People — not to borrow from Sally Rooney or nothing, because hers are pretty weird.
