As the media could not get enough of Bill Clegg's masturbatory (in some cases literally) memoir, the New York Times Sunday Style Section decided to devote far more coverage than deserved as I wrote about here.
What really annoys me is this:
And magnifying those secrets, at least in his mind, were deep-seated insecurities about making it in a city where everyone seemed richer, Ivy-educated and better bred. “I never got the handbook,” says Mr. Clegg, who grew up in rural Connecticut the son of a TWA pilot and enrolled at, he reluctantly admits, Washington College, a small institution in Maryland. “Everybody’s godfather was like some famous editor. Or they spent summers in Maine with famous writers.”
Boo-frigging hoo. Then there's this:
He recalls visiting New York City a few times in his early 20s and feeling out of his league. “We were so unsophisticated,” he says. “We would eat Chinese food in like Murray Hill and think it was the most glamorous thing that had ever happened to us.”
I have a friend who's from Brazil. Her great-grandfather was a slave. She is in her forties and has lost both parents, her stepmother, her only sibling (a brother), a cousin who was practically a sister to her. The worst came for her when she lost her husband eight and a half years ago with no life insurance and a three-year-old son to raise. She came to this country with fair English, which she worked hard to improve, got an education and has an excellent career in the financial services industry. She has dealt with far more genuine adversity than this guy has and done a much better job of handling it.
I'm glad that Bill Clegg has turned his life around. I'm just sorry to see that he's making himself very wealthy by showing the world that he was a monstrous ass for a long time.