This Day in Matrimonial History
Bride Nicole Kidman
Groom Keith Urban
Date June 25, 2006
Location Cardinal Cerretti Memorial Chapel on St. Patrick’s Estate, Sydney
Matron of Honor Antonia Kidman, television personality
Best Man Shane Urban, groom’s brother
Dress Ivory Empire-line silk organza-and-lace column with one micropleated puff sleeve by Nicolas Ghesquiere for Balenciaga
Bride Jessica Jernigan
Groom Ted Clayton
Date June 25, 2004
Location Washtenaw County Courthouse in Ann Arbor, Michigan
Maid of Honor Kate Felmet, pediatrician
Best Man Eric Kos, professor
Dress Pink and white seersucker strapless sheath with matching jacket by J. Crew
So Much for the 11½-Inch Lip-Syncing Stripper
This is kind of old news, but having chastised Hasbro for their plans to add “skanky ho” to the list of possible answers to the question “What do you want to be when you grow up?”, I feel I should mention that the venerable toy company has decided against manufacturing Pussycat Dolls dolls. Props to Dads & Daughters for sponsoring the letter-writing campaign that apparently changed Hasbro’s mind.
One of my freelance gigs is writing ad copy for “urban fiction.” As a professional writer, I’ll scribble just about anything for money, and formulaic novels make for easy work, so it would be wrong to say that I’m ambivalent about the job. As a reader, however, I have mixed feelings about the ascendancy of books like Ice Cream for Freaks, Candy Licker and Legit Baller
This stuff is often self-published, or it’s self-published work that has been picked up and reissued by a commercial house, and I’ve got nothing but admiration for the remarkable success of grassroots publishing in African-American fiction. And one might argue that these books reach an audience that wouldn’t otherwise be reading, and that reading something is better than reading nothing. It must be said, though, that this stuff is, more often than not, astonishingly crappy. It’s true that it’s not necessarily any crappier than most of the mass market fiction aimed at a whiter audience—although there do seem to be a lot more spelling and grammatical errors than one tends to find in even the cheesiest romance novel or thriller—but I feel that, if I were African American, I would be offended by the print iteration of blaxploitation. Of course, since I’m not African American, I feel kind of squeamish about having an opinion at all, particularly one that tries to encompass how I think I might feel if I were black. So, I write my ad copy, I try not to make icky faces while I do it, and I cash my paycheck.
Kia Gregory’s column on ghetto fiction in Philadelphia Weekly is kind of thin, but she does say a few of the things I might say about the genre if I were going to say anything at all.