I am reading a really good book. Yeah. That’s my excuse, if any particularly greedy readers think I’m not blogging enough. Cuz when I have free time, I’m reading it instead of blogging. Good one, huh? Huh? Yeah?
The thing about this book is, I’m ashamed of liking it. But it’s kind of like one of those millions of shallow chick flicks that everybody watches sometime or other. You’re embarrassed of liking them, but you watch them and love them and then rewind and watch them all over again. I know you’re thrilled every time Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen comes onto Disney Channel at night... again. We all love Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff. We just don’t want to admit it, even to ourselves. Of course, my favorite movies are all either kiddie movies, (Hairspray) chick flicks, (The Devil Wears Prada, 27 Dresses, Legally Blonde) or Pixar. Plus all those wonderful combination kiddie/chick flick movies that Disney keeps putting out. Or, put out a few years ago, before all the stars got sent to rehab. Cheetah Girls. Cheetah Girls 2. The Lizzie McGuire Movie. Get A Clue. Feel-good movies with little substance but many dedicated but anonymous watchers. Think about it, if you turned on the television and found a channel that happened to be right at the climax of some action-y type movie, you’d get too confused and drown in all the perplexing folds of the plotline. If you landed straight in the middle of, say, Get A Clue, (BEST. MOVIE. EVER.) you could easily pick up on what was going on, floating along with Lindsay and company on their little adventure. Movies should be simple and fun, something you can either glide or dance through. Other movies always make me scared, bored, confused, or grossed out.
Anyway. About the book. It’s exactly the literature equivalent of those fluffy girly movies that I so adore. Gals, remember the sonic boom that erupted from the publishing of The Sisterhood Of The Traveling Pants series? Well, I scoffed at those books. I have a different opinion about books than I do movies. Books are supposed to be complex and interesting, and these promised to be anything but. My sister got the first two for her birthday in sixth grade. Or maybe seventh. Possible fifth. I never read them after all these one, two, or three years, but I was desperate. I had read every single thing in the house, from my books to the dictionary (Yawn. I got bored after “aardvark.”) to my old journals to the receipts at the bottom of my purse. I caved, and read the book. It was a good book. Absolutely majestic. (Sigh. Read the post below if you don’t get it.) I devoured the entire thing in three days. Then I moved on to the second one, which I have been plowing through for two days, so I guesstimate I’ll be finished soon. The weird thing is, I loved the movies, both of them, but it never did connect in my brain, “hey, maybe I should read the books.” But like, yeah, I did, so.
Boy, I’m really gabbering on today, huh? And about the least original topic ever. Books and movies, movies and books. Sorry if this post was boring. At least that other sandwich will have company.
(Yeah, you have to read the post below this again to get that. I don’t even know if the whole sandwich thing makes sense. It does in my brain, but my mind doesn’t exactly, you know, represent the average human being’s.)