The other night Chris and I were watching "Only in America" with NY Times pretty boy Charlie LeDuff. I am certain that he hauls around a gym bag filled with hair products as to keep his man curls fanboy-perfect.
We really like this show if for no other reason than because LeDuff's purpose has a direct opposite effect: Instead of highlighting and subtly poking fun at American idiosyncrancies, it only serves to amplify his own, a vanity he generously exhibits with every episode.
The first episode that we watched featured LeDuff wandering all deer-in-headlights-like into Oakland's famous fight club scene, where he got his backside handed to him by a 270+ pound man. IT WAS AWESOME.
The most recent episode details how LeDuff got all up in Detroit's grill by exploiting their hip hop scene and torturing my soul with his privileged, Hollywood attempt at rap by using expensive iambic pentameter. He got into a friendly rap battle with some guys who could verbally gut him like a fish and of course thought he was all cool because he parsed a string of forced rhyme together. The group of aspiring rappers clapped because who were they to make fun of free publicity, even if it was at the hands of a patronizing, trying-too-hard dude who uses "product?"
In yet another episode, LeDuff travels to the armpit of Appalachia to interview the snake-charming, tongue-talking zealous sect who seem like real-live characters created by the writers of Napoleon Dynamite. He made a complete butthat out of the tent-revivalist preacher whom I personally felt was out more for fame than salvation and highlighted the often exclusive charismatic community practices. Finally, in what no reporter has ever before attempted, LeDuff differentiated between "evangelicals" and plain old Christians and discussed the redundancy of the term "born again" with a popular pastor.
"You know what? At this moment, I'm kind of glad that he didn't get killed in Oakland." I remarked to Chris.
"Yeah, me too."
Still, Hunter S. Thompson rolls in his grave.