|Yes, this is Christmas, but it adequately conveys the pathos of the time.|
(I'm going to give trails and running a break. Check this nugget from 1989. I remember giving up a decent run for it. Maybe it was worth it, after all).
In spring 1989 I got dragged to an Est-seminar by my then-girlfriend, who was big on sincere self-help stuff. Her best friend E. was there, and she's a pleasant personality.
There are other hilarious details in this grotesque breakfast clusterfuck that occurred at the Beverly Hills Hotel, but they'll have to wait for another time.
The featured attraction to this soggy fuckery was a couple who were pimping their self-help book, something titled "Marriage Work Out" or similar. He was a tall, angular, pleat-fronted, smartass New York Jew. She was a curvy blonde All-American cheerleader betty—blonde, blue eyed, shiksa to the core.
So this intellectual jackass stood up on the platform, jingling the change in his pockets, telling us what a sinner he was. Stepping out on Her, recounting his moronic hookups while she gazed up at him, adoringly.
THEN. He realized he was Wrong! She was gonna dump him! Drama! They Struggled, And Shit. And out of this dross and slag, came A Book. Which was the point of their appearance, as they were going to be on TV later that afternoon, to pimp that book. Maybe Phil Donahue for all I know.
My eyes rolled back in my head, I thought I was gonna pass out. Why? Because back in the early '80s I'd lived in an apt bldg with an "open marriage" in the back apts. This fucked up threesome wrote a book about it, went on Phil Donahue, and lied, lied, lied about how fab it was.
Then it hit me! I saw them in their motel room, that very morning. He in his boxers, she in her boy-cut panties and Victoria Secret pushup bra. Having a knock-down, drag out argument. She was throwing shit at him, calling him a lying asshole, and he was hissing about how she was a needy tramp, and so on.
I was saved. The remainder of their pitch droned on. I watched their lips moving and knew they were lying. At the first opportunity, we broke for the exits at a run. Fresh air never tasted so good. We discussed this disaster. She busted up when I told her my revelation.
And we never went to one of those again.