Every now and then, people--literary, readerly, New Yorky, feministy people-- get a little sheepish around us at Cupcake because they're embarrassed that they sometimes like to read chick lit. They'll admit it and it's so cute. And you know, it's a little funny to me because of course, as Choire Sicha pointed out in his hilarious review of the Plum Sykes book, we all need our beach trash. Read whatchalike, people. My job isn't to be a sort of a fundamentalist Jesus against the chick-lit, examining with my magic spiritual all-knowing eye the contents of your night table. My job is to point out the economic disparity in the literary world for women, which involves skewering the overload of chick-lit flavored beach trash that seems to fund the big boy-genius tomes that get the literary genius pass from having to survive in the marketplace.

Blah blah blah. What I'm trying to say is: I too love my trash. You know I love me some trash. I almost ate a Sno-Ball, a pink one, when my student Deborah brought them to class the other week.

And if I were in the mood for trash right now, little Tatum is what I would be reading about:
O'Neal's mother, actress Joanna Moore, was no prize, either. She popped pills and was obsessed with looking young. "The caps on her teeth were never tight enough," O'Neal writes. "As a child, I was like the tooth fairy, ferreting out the lost caps that were always strewn around the house."
Is she our new Courtney Love? Do we need one? Will you freelancers out there totally be watching this girl on Oprah at 4, when that Tuesday-afternoon, what-the-hell, I've-had-enough-of-working-for-the-man feeling kicks in? I knew you would be.



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