Hello, Failure

Of all the enemies of literature, success is the most insidious

Friday, March 26, 2004

Failure of the Day: Orange Sherbet and Metafiction

It's my own personal 50/50 bar of joy. Not that anyone else remembers 50/50 bars, but still.

This week saw not only the return of my beloved OC after some horrible Fox executive's brainstorm to make American Idol two hours long for reasons that seriously are past my understanding—how long can one watch this ongoing display of the truly horrible state of popular music? But I digress. This week also saw the fruition of a genuinely genius idea I had at the grocery store last week, but first things first.

The OC is clearly inside all of our heads now, and resistance is futile. It could hardly be more so if the next episode featured the ghost of Anne Sexton making a cameo for no other reason than to scream about how all her poems were transmitted to her via a super intelligent beam of pink light. Really. How else to describe their headlong dive into prime time metafiction in the form of all the characters being obsessed with a teen TV show called The Valley that is clearly the OC, complete with comments like "How can that guy play high school?" Spoken by the 30 year old 9th grader on the show. But it doesn't stop at metafiction, no; we've got out and out surrealism in the form Paris Hilton, who is so vapid you can actually see the soup in which her head is suspended, making a cameo for no reason other than to initiate a 20 second conversation with Seth about Thomas Pynchon. "Don't tell anyone I'm in Grad School," she slurs.

Now: let's name names: Genius, I call thee Orange sherbet/vanilla swirl ice cream. I can only conclude that I have completely transferred my addictions. I look forward anxiously each evening to the time when I again will be so cold that I literally shake and chatter, but don't even consider pausing my ice cream consumption. I grew up with a ridiculous dog who did the exact same thing, and that says something about me. Not a good thing, either.


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