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The occasional collection of pictures does help, though. Take, for example, Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins, a memoir by actor Rupert Everett. I have a soft spot for the kind of autobiography that is demanded by almost no one but could still be appreciated by almost anyone.
As you might expect, Mr. Everett comes off as charmingly flawed, but in more than just the British sense. For a brief period (after My Best Friend's Wedding) he was a Hollywood outsider turned insider, and that perspective fueled an intriguing candor that was not just self-deprecating, but deprecating all around. Those who regretted seeing The Next Best Thing (I missed it) may be relieved to learn of its disastrous back story.
Don't read it cover to cover; you'll get mired in early childhood and boarding school blahs and whatnot. Skip around and enjoy the relentless namedropping. Or the rise and fall of the Miami celebrity scene. Or his straight phase. The guy's been everywhere.
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Clash's book gets a little too inspiration-minded at times, but he is Elmo, after all, which means a lot to kids and many adults. Plus, his success story is highly unlikely and unusual; few people dream of being a puppeteer, and even fewer try to make it happen.
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Do yourselves a favor and visit your local public library. If yours is like the Las Vegas system, they're forgiving all late fines.
2 comments:
I love Rupert Everett. "There's a little hollow at the base of his throat that makes me want to pour honey all over him and lick it off."
I know this is seriously late, but thank you for pointing me to Ken Jennings' blog. The man is a GIFTED writer.
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