Nuptial Vowels

A few weeks ago a neighbor, who is familiar with my ghostwriting past, told me that a Facebook “friend” of his was advertising for a ghostwriter. “She’s a former Redskins cheerleader,” my neighbor said. “And she owns a winery.”

“No thanks,” I answered politely. “That sounds like my worst nightmare,” I thought. The Facebook ad read, in part, “Now interviewing applications for Ghost writers for the true story of  ‘Wine & Roses’…”

What could a pom-pom wielding vintner possibly have to say that anyone would want to read?

Oh, silly, naive me.

As the world now knows, the answer to that question is “plenty.” The White House party crashers are now hawking their story to the highest broadcast bidder, hoping for “mid-six figures” for a network appearance, and in this reality show era, they will probably get it. Who knows what they’ll get for a book contract, or which pink-slipped, buy-out demoralized journalist they’ll bribe to write the thing. 

And I’m not using the word “thing” lightly. It’s hard to know how to characterize a “memoir” that is “written” by a former cheerleader (even this “fact,” among others, is under dispute); the word “memoir” in this case is a misnomer, given that the word comes from Old French memoire, memory, from Latin memoria, and memory seems to have less to do with what these people are selling and more to do with snake oil flapdoodle. In fact, reports indicate that the couple has trouble with memory as well as distinguishing fantasy from fact. To wit: a Washington Post story reports that the investigation into the couple’s party-crashing is “hard on them because they really believe they were invited.”

Oh puleeeze…

When the Salahis turned to Facebook to find a ghostwriter, it was just another desperate act of status-seeking. In Washington, hiring a ghostwriter and manufacturing a memoir or autobiography is in the same status symbol category as snagging an invitation to a White House dinner, driving a Hummer, or having the Jonas Brothers perform at your tween’s birthday bash.  

When the recession hit us a little more than a year ago there was a spate of stories about how this was going to make us all become less materialistic and bring us back to our authentic selves.  Right, I thought. I’ll be canning my own fig preserves and my kid will jettison her Nintendo DS and take up quilting.

Or… maybe not. This morning I just shook my head when I read the Washington Post’s car column. The 2010 Range Rover is named the Autobiography.  “The 2010 Land Rover Range Rover Autobiography is the extreme SUV for extremely affluent people who, to put it mildly, are different from you and me and don’t give a hoot about what we think,” writes Warren Brown.

“What a stupid name for a car,” my husband said.

“Actually,” I replied. “It’s pure genius.”

As for the Salahis, my friend Joel Achenbach has the best idea yet for dealing with these wanna be’s: throw the book at them (but please, not the book contract).

–Barbara