Photo uploaded by DJ Lein
After finishing work on Monday, having sat at my desk for eight hours straight, I climbed into a taxi, went home, jumped into bed and switched on the TV. Turn on, tune in, drop out.
The next night, I did it again. And the next night and the next. Every Sunday, I make grand plans for the upcoming week – Monday, study Indonesian; Tuesday, get a head start on writing a story; Wednesday, go to the gym – but after a day at the office, I can’t resist putting two things I love together: TV and bed. I have truly become a loser in the same vein as Homer Simpson.
My nightly viewing schedule usually involves some MTV and Channel V – which are bitter reminders of my unsuccessful attempts to make it as a singer in Sydney — and I always get my 11 p.m. hit of “Jimmy Kimmel Live” on Star World, on which Kimmel interviews celebrities who did make it. They are pleasing to the eye and speak in a soothing simplicity, putting me contentedly to sleep like a sweet lullaby.
But on Monday night, as my eyelids were drooping, something on the show caught my attention. I sat up in bed, alert and fascinated. Our revered glamorous types were being somewhat knocked from their pedestals by a goofy-looking, very un-Beverly Hills-like author.