Read all about it Jane Fonda goes blah blah blah about how her 35-year bout with bulimia is due to her desire to be the perfect wife, to be beautiful, blah blah about how all her dreams were destroyed when she became self-aware. While our friend in ultra Communist, ultra egalitarian Hollywood claims it was her desire for perfection that caused her to become bulimic, MWB knows the truth; it's communism that makes one upchuck one's food on a regular basis. After all, it really is enough to make you hack up your lunch, the very idea that anyone in the most class-based society on earth would spout off about esteem (translation: egalitarianism). If you've ever experienced the joys of Hollywoodland (for bloggers in the know, the original Hollywood sign read "Hollywoodland" but when "land" fell down, it was never replaced), you well know you are either an a-list, a b-list, a c-list, or a nobody. You either know somebody, or you should kill yourself. And you hang precariously in one category, always perched by one lost investment, bad movie, or invitation slight to fall one or more categories down. I was in a Hollywood restaurant a few weeks ago, and the humanity on display was enough to make me wanna barf. There was a group of 5 or 6 people in the corner, but the only talker was an animated 35-ish guy dropping names like tarnished pennies... "Dustin said it was the funniest script he'd ever seen!" His audience was rapt. The plebes grouped around this fruit and hung onto every word because he could say things like "Dustin" and "Hilary" and "Clint" and it meant something. Something really important. The waiter had to fawn over these idiots to make sure he did not alienate a FOD (Friend of Dustin). But clearly, he was annoyed. The tone of his voice was degrees more severe than simple sarcasm when he said, "Can I help you?" to the fawning crowd. Witnessing such a display one no longer wonders how Jim Jones came to be. Me, a real nobody, simply sits in the corner trying to enjoy a nice late-night meal after a fabulous trip to the Opera and observes this exchange with the interest of a psychology student. I was quite fortunate, since this was my only chance to be granted entrance to the inner sanctum--a premium a-list attended restaurant on Sunset Boulevard--it was 1 a.m. and the a-listers had moved on to a-list parties. During prime time, my only chance for a booth would be as a FOD (that earns you an automatic letter list designation). Alas, I am not; you recall, I'm a nobody. Knowing this, experiencing this, seeing this, knowing the a- list b-list c-list bullshit, Hanoi Jane makes us laugh when she pleads for young ladies to have self esteem and not to wolf up their lunches in the name of perfection. The world she promotes, the world she lives in, the very world she helped to create and continues to propagate shamelessly promotes stick figure looks and damnation to outsiders. Why would any of the girls at her little talk listen when the alluring twinkle of Follywood beckons?