Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Week 12: Extras, Season 2, Disc 2

Okay, I won't bore you again with my endless babbling about how funny this show is. Instead, I though I'd make a clumsy segue from the fact that Chris Martin was the guest star on one episode on this disc to the fact that I CANNOT STAND his wife, Gwyneth Paltrow.

Is it because I am secretly jealous of how fabulous her life is? Possibly.

Is it because even though I think she's a self-obsessed bore, given the chance, I would try to become her friend? Most certainly.

Is it because I want the ability to casually toss into conversation the fact that Steven Spielberg is my godfather? Yes. I am a shallow hal.

I think Gwynnie is a fine actress. I don't think she's as great as everyone pretends she is (conveniently forgetting that atrocious cow patty she was in with Huey Lewis, Duets). I can even put up with her yapping about macrobiotic diets and how she NEEDED to take a year off from work because pretending to be other people for a living is really hell on her yoga practice. Testify.

I think what did me in with Paltrow was the the clip I saw of her on the Oprah show in which she lamented her father's death by recounting the story of the time he took her to the Ritz Carlton in Paris so she could, "see Paris for the first time with a man who would always love her."

The audience swooned. Oprah made one of those sounds she makes when she forgets that she's supposed to be pretending to be a folksy black woman. The whole room felt sorry for Gwyneth. Because her father would never again take her to the Ritz Carlton. In Paris. France. Where she probably stays every other week. And never has to worry that the bottle of Fiji she just took from the minibar cost 35 euros. But remember folks, she is lounging in that giant featherbed in the presidential suite of a five-star hotel without her father. She only has her maid, her butler, rockstar husband and healthy children to keep her company. Sigh.

I feel for you, Gwynnie. I really do. Because my father will probably never again take me to the Knight's Inn off the highway in Bexley, West Virginia. The one with indoor plumbing and only a modest amount of stains on unwashed sheets. Nope, I may never get to see that icon of luxury again with the one man who would always tolerate me.

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