Four score and a self caressing housewife ago, the ghost of GhostWriterGate, or Hashtag-Bookgate– was conjured and is still haunting this season’s Real Housewives of New York City’s reunion, the lit-up boards at Vulture magazine and ever peripherally, clanking chains in the inner recesses of my sleep deprived mind on a loop-dee-loop to infinity and beyond. Thus, with all endlessly imagined, or inflated slights and shrill cat fights over stolen dresses and side-eyed shade-casting, one-upping, cauldron-stirring, spell-casting, apple-poisoning, envy-frothing, mud-slinging, bad acting, teeth-gnashing, teeth-spitting, finger-pointing, mouth-frothing and boy-toy-banging during way-too-dirty-martinied well-hung and laid-overs on Scarey Islands and Humpty Hamptons aside, we must ask if these women can cast the seeds of a true bane in another’s existence.
Simply put, Aviva Drescher put out there, for the whole world to see in rerun perpetuity, the head-swirling idea that Carole Radziwill’s bestsellers were authored by someone else. A spell, maddeningly impossible to uncast, nor banish once seeded in viewers’ minds.
As this potential real crime began to emerge from the rabble rubble of shrill and petty misdemeanors, I took some weirdly personal umbrage at said ghostwriter branding, or wounding of character that the abhorrent monopede, Aviva Drescher, inflicted onto Carole Radziwill until what is turning out to be the end days of creation or the last breath of Bravo–whichever comes first. The latter, I bet, can be brought upon only if the endless world-wide supply of these delusional gaggles of narcissistic, self caressing women, teetering in their Louboutins and on the verge of their mid life crises, were to refuse to willfully appear on these shows that we loathe others a little more than ourselves for loving.
We know this universal boycott wish ain’t gonna happen, so we’re left to ponder and morally distinguish why this emerges as unpardonable sin or crime from the endless vortex of inane and forgettable Housewife misdemeanors and buggery. Was the succubus Aviva accusation comperable only to that of Brandi Glanville’s near-mortal blow to Adrienne Maloof for outing Adrienne’s secret option to choose birthing her children by a proxy-for-hire? Clearly, we’re in the embryonic era of a Brave New World–literary references considered and made to sit down and shiver in the corner where resignation meets and greets the brutal reality of what the one percentile is by privilege allowed, with or without our consent, nor apologetically cowering moral compass. Needless to say, as a mere aside, why would Adrienne Maloof, if she were anyone in this world, think they could keep a literal vital secret while riding that scud missile into those 15 minutes to infamy?
Provable or not, true or untrue, these spells do cross into what Lisa Vanderpump so eloquently described as “character assassination” when some accusations were being hurled her way and she distinguished them as posing non negotiable threats to one’s livelihood or self image that can live on in TV land perpetuity, wreaking damages from which there’s no simple return .
Why did it bother me–a two-bit music writer–to the tune of making me take to a rant and a holla via a recap? Because it is shizzle like thissle that can actually–and probably should– bring about a head scratching moment in time to resemble a crisis of conscience. After all, we get to clearly see how the monopede Aviva goes to a place of no return in our great Anthropological Experiment. A place where we can only shrug to imagine we would never want to meet her, nor find ourselves. A most tenebrous junction where the soul is traded as currency to buy into that last millisecond stretch before the 15th minute ends in a terrifying death rattle. All this merely to throw such bought-and-sold soul back into the vertiginous, black- hole-depths of anonymity where Jill Zarin’s screams echo through eternity, and where Andy Cohen checks his Twitter feed in glee–despite and–instead.
So, for those of you that missed it, as I might have posted a quivering link before, here’s my half assed attempt at recapping this less-forgivable-moment-in-time for shits and giggles. Or better to say that this is what I wrote over a year ago about this unsavory and ghoulish spell we still can’t awaken from:
Raspberry Bouquet for Real Housewife of New York City Aviva Drescher
What can I write about the abhorrent Monopede Real Housewife of New York City that is Aviva Drescher that won’t get me thrown in the Pen? In just the second episode of this season’s Lowest Upper Eastside Homies And Thugs In Cocktail Dresses, she has degraded herself from housewife we all loved to hate, to housewife we wish to sick The Bogo Most-Wretched-Fraternal-Sisters From The Faraway Hill Kingdom Of Beverly onto to hide her prosthetic leg during a Hamptons lawn game played with a mallet. But, judging from previews, that seems slated for a later episode—so we’ll just have to go to the refrigerator first.
What is this fauxest pas she has committed to not only piss off most couch potatoes-at-large (we may not come in one-size-fits-all as the descriptive implies, duhhlings) but an additional and more underestimated subspecies among them known as Irate Writers? Yours truly may well be leading the pack as this is being freshly penned by one of Sonja-With-A-Sexy-J’s interns known as Pickles.
Aviva has made the viably slanderous and unpardonable—among writers, particularly—accusation, aka Hashtag Bookgate, against Real-Life-Writer-And-Princess-Carole-Of-The-Radziwills , claiming that said Princess had her book ghostwritten. Does this mean that we’ll have characters named Quentin, Angelique and Barnabus from Dark Shadows joining the cast any time soon? No, duhhlings, this is much scarier than a mid-seventies, mid-afternoon Mock-Goth-Soap. This veers, clearly, into territory where the more aptly applicable vernacular of themz is fightin’ words best describes.
Aviva further insults and outright lies to Real-Life-Writer-And-Princess-Carole-Of-The-Radziwills’s face by declaring that writing is “fun” and that Aviva herself wrote her own book as just a “long email”. And this is where I part company with, take umbrage, leave no prisoners, come to the rescue of said Real Princess and my fellow Real Writers and declare this heresy not only utterly offensive but bogus! Shouldn’t the longest email amongst this bunch be typed by Wonky-Eyed-Ramona and acted out as a striptease—or Caburlesque—by Sonja-With-A-Sexy-J, instead?