Friday, October 17, 2008


I just started reading the book, Insatiable, by New York magazine columnist Gael Greene. For 30 years, she provided the voice for "The Insatiable Critic" and has also penned many novels such as Blue Skies, No Candy and Doctor Love. The premise of Insatiable is her multitude of "tales from a life of delicious excess." Ms. Greene asserts that she was born hungry - hungry for love and attention, and hungry for taste and variety in her food. Feasting and fornicating intertwine in each chapter. The quote on the back cover, "For me, the two greatest discoveries of the twentieth century were the Cuisinart and the clitoris," pretty much sums it up.

I want to find this book interesting, and it is very intriguing so far, on some levels. Ms. Greene is an excellent writer with a vocabulary like I've never seen. Unfortunately, her very first chapter left me so dubious that it nearly tainted my curiosity for the rest of the book. Cleverly titled The Fried Egg and I, she describes how, in her younger years, she finagled a meeting with Elvis, had sex with him in his hotel room, and afterwards he asked her to call room service and order him a fried egg sandwich.

The dubious part is not the egg sandwich. Who doesn't love a good fried egg sandwich? It's the fact that Ms. Greene can seem to remember many precise details from over 60 years ago, such as what she was wearing that day, down to the white gloves. She can remember "Lamar" the security guard, and how she flirtatiously tickled his elbow in an attempt to meet The King. She describes the comic-reading, coke-sipping atmosphere of the 24th floor hotel suite. But she does not recall any details about the sex. With Elvis. I'm not asking for little (or "big") details, just some recollection. It seems there is none. Back in my day as a film studio publicist (a whopping three years ago) when I worked a premiere with Lindsay Lohan, I escorted her around, and was at the hotel when she snuck out at 3 a.m. for a White Castle crave-call. But that does not mean we had sex. And if we had, I think I would have been aware that if anyone is to believe me, I should probably remember something about it.

Ms. Greene, I have the utmost respect for you and your work, and I'm looking forward to reading the rest of your book. But for now I have to call "bull" on your claim to bedding Elvis until I get some lip-curling, pelvis-y information to refute my suspicions.

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