Trash Fiction

"He had more connections to drug trafficking than whores did to herpes."

Aaaaaaand... that's how you know you're reading trash fiction, friends.

I'm reading this book by Sandra Brown. I know nothing about Ms. Brown except that she may have either (1) worked for the police, or (2) written scripts for CSI, because this particular book reads like a bad TV cop show. The plot is utterly predictable, the characters are shallow, and yet somehow you're completely sucked in.

It reminds me of when I used to watch that show "America's Next Top Model" (now in its 18th season, God help us all). There is nothing redeeming about that show. Nothing. Sure, occasionally they'd have a really creative idea for a photo shoot, like the seven deadly sins, or the twelve signs of the zodiac. And then the models would ruin it all with their stiff poses, wooden facial expressions, overacting, drama, bitchiness, immaturity, snobbery, teen angst, closed-mindedness, or being just plain dumb. And yet, I had to keep watching it to see what Tyra would wear, and who she would privately take under her wing or chew out in front of everybody, and what goofy crap Janice Dickinson would do, and the silly things the models would say, and of course who would win.

WHY?? My friends, sometimes there is no why. Sometimes there is just yummy junk food for the brain.

I do have plenty of love for highbrow stuff. But not tonight. If you'll excuse me, I need to pop off to bed with my novel to see what happens next with defense-attorney-and-secret-drug-kingpin Pinkie Duvall, his big-chested, malcontent trophy wife, Remy, and the cop who hates them both.