Is It Just Me or Is Everything Shit? by Steve Lowe, Alan Mcarthur, Brendan Hay Page B
Book: Is It Just Me or Is Everything Shit? by Steve Lowe, Alan Mcarthur, Brendan Hay
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baker. And bread has never been especially beneficial to philosophy. But that all changed when one modern philosopher was struck by inspiration while thinking about bread. Toasted bread. Toast, in fact.
The philosopher in question was, of course, Teri Hatcher, philosopher, whose subsequent treatise
Burnt Toast: And Other Philosophies of Life
expanded upon her belief that, when presented with burnt toast, women often eat it rather than throwing it away and starting again. The thing is, it’s not just about toast—the toast is a metaphor, you see. For all poorly prepared breakfasts. Not that Teri Hatcher seems to ever eat breakfast, what with her looking so thin and all. Or, indeed, a PowerBar.
Anyway, what follows is a kind of aphoristic free-for-all reminiscent of the work of Friedrich Nietzsche. For instance: “When my waters broke with Emerson, I was in the middle of cooking dinner. I called the doctor who told me to come straight to the hospital. I asked her if I had time to blow dry my hair. She said, ‘What?’ ”
And: “When I hung up the phone I burst into tears. That motherfucker. I opened myself up and what did I get? Scorched. I rallied a couple of girlfriends for burn-victim treatment.”
And: “When we’re kids, our instincts are raw and untempered by all the pros and cons and second-guessing that take over our adult lives. But we suffer the consequences. I kept the cat. Kitty was her name.”
Fairly soon, you realize that the desperation is no act, that Hatcher really is that desperate—for truth! Among other things.
We wonder what Eva Longoria’s great philosophical investigation will reveal. She’s certainly due her own “eureka” moment sometime soon. What with all that sitting around in the bath.
“HAVING ONE OF THOSE DAYS?” ADVERTISING
Having one of those days? Someone at the office dumping their work on you? Got rained on at lunch? Hair? Him? And that?
Don’t worry, girls. Just relax on a big, snuggly sofa with a steaming mug of hot chocolate (lo-cal, natch!) and think about crummy guys, etc., etc. With ads for products aimed primarily at females aged 20–35, you can virtually hear the brains of lumpen creatives filling in the cliché boxes with a big lazy tick: okay . . . vulnerable, likes snuggling up, “having one of those days?,” shake it all off with . . . bubbles, thinking about crummy guys, lo-cal hot chocolate . . . pamper pamper, more hot chocolate, mmmm, steamy and warm, mmmm, bubbles, luxuriant bubble bath absolutely everywhere . . . “having one of those days?” . . . more bubbles. Candles!
HEALTH-FOOD ENTREPRENEURS
Wholemeal breadheads.
HEDGE-FUND BOYS
In a get-rich-quick world, hedge-fund boys get rich the quickest. How they spend their cash influences whole lower stratospheres of vacuous consumption. Currently, hedge-fund boys prefer to splash their cash ordering bottles of every liquor under the sun, ostensibly opening their own lounge-side bar within the bar.
If professional watchers of the super-rich are to be believed, these “lords of havoc” (so dubbed by the UK’s
New Statesman
) drive the tastiest motors, eat at the fastest restaurants, swim in the wettest pools, and stalk London and New York like Knights of the Bastard Table. The
Sunday Telegraph
estimated that in 2005, around 200 to 300 UK hedge-fund managers carved up $4.2 billion of pure profit among them. In 2005, according to the U.S.
Institutional Investor
magazine, the top twenty-five hedge-fund managers earned an average of $251 million each. The amount of money the world’s hedge funders handle could be as much as $1.5 trillion.
So how do they do it? Well, it’s tricky. Even people who understand economics do not understand hedge funds. These secretive, privately owned investment companies are massive—if they were a country, they would be the eighth biggest on the planet. But it would be a country you could not visit or even see: Hedge funds, of which there are reckoned to be eight
The philosopher in question was, of course, Teri Hatcher, philosopher, whose subsequent treatise
Burnt Toast: And Other Philosophies of Life
expanded upon her belief that, when presented with burnt toast, women often eat it rather than throwing it away and starting again. The thing is, it’s not just about toast—the toast is a metaphor, you see. For all poorly prepared breakfasts. Not that Teri Hatcher seems to ever eat breakfast, what with her looking so thin and all. Or, indeed, a PowerBar.
Anyway, what follows is a kind of aphoristic free-for-all reminiscent of the work of Friedrich Nietzsche. For instance: “When my waters broke with Emerson, I was in the middle of cooking dinner. I called the doctor who told me to come straight to the hospital. I asked her if I had time to blow dry my hair. She said, ‘What?’ ”
And: “When I hung up the phone I burst into tears. That motherfucker. I opened myself up and what did I get? Scorched. I rallied a couple of girlfriends for burn-victim treatment.”
And: “When we’re kids, our instincts are raw and untempered by all the pros and cons and second-guessing that take over our adult lives. But we suffer the consequences. I kept the cat. Kitty was her name.”
Fairly soon, you realize that the desperation is no act, that Hatcher really is that desperate—for truth! Among other things.
We wonder what Eva Longoria’s great philosophical investigation will reveal. She’s certainly due her own “eureka” moment sometime soon. What with all that sitting around in the bath.
“HAVING ONE OF THOSE DAYS?” ADVERTISING
Having one of those days? Someone at the office dumping their work on you? Got rained on at lunch? Hair? Him? And that?
Don’t worry, girls. Just relax on a big, snuggly sofa with a steaming mug of hot chocolate (lo-cal, natch!) and think about crummy guys, etc., etc. With ads for products aimed primarily at females aged 20–35, you can virtually hear the brains of lumpen creatives filling in the cliché boxes with a big lazy tick: okay . . . vulnerable, likes snuggling up, “having one of those days?,” shake it all off with . . . bubbles, thinking about crummy guys, lo-cal hot chocolate . . . pamper pamper, more hot chocolate, mmmm, steamy and warm, mmmm, bubbles, luxuriant bubble bath absolutely everywhere . . . “having one of those days?” . . . more bubbles. Candles!
HEALTH-FOOD ENTREPRENEURS
Wholemeal breadheads.
HEDGE-FUND BOYS
In a get-rich-quick world, hedge-fund boys get rich the quickest. How they spend their cash influences whole lower stratospheres of vacuous consumption. Currently, hedge-fund boys prefer to splash their cash ordering bottles of every liquor under the sun, ostensibly opening their own lounge-side bar within the bar.
If professional watchers of the super-rich are to be believed, these “lords of havoc” (so dubbed by the UK’s
New Statesman
) drive the tastiest motors, eat at the fastest restaurants, swim in the wettest pools, and stalk London and New York like Knights of the Bastard Table. The
Sunday Telegraph
estimated that in 2005, around 200 to 300 UK hedge-fund managers carved up $4.2 billion of pure profit among them. In 2005, according to the U.S.
Institutional Investor
magazine, the top twenty-five hedge-fund managers earned an average of $251 million each. The amount of money the world’s hedge funders handle could be as much as $1.5 trillion.
So how do they do it? Well, it’s tricky. Even people who understand economics do not understand hedge funds. These secretive, privately owned investment companies are massive—if they were a country, they would be the eighth biggest on the planet. But it would be a country you could not visit or even see: Hedge funds, of which there are reckoned to be eight
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