Mary-Louise Parker is perhaps best known for having amazing looking tits on camera well into her 40’s. She’s completed her memoirs which according to the rules of not super famous people writing memoirs has to have some cloying novelty hook. It’s not like you can have a chapter on averting the Cuban Missile Crisis or that time you broke the color barrier in your sport. You’ve been on West Wing and Weeds. Nobody’s buying an autobiography about what it was like to work with Bradley Whitford or get the herp from Jeffrey Dean Morgan.
Parker framed her autobiography as a series of letters to strangers that provide a dramatic recreation of her life events without using anybody’s real names. Like a letter to a cab driver about being being seven months pregnant and learning that Billy Crudup has suddenly left you to start fucking Claire Danes. Only far less enticing because told as an anonymous fable about a chick in the back of a cab crying over her lot in life. Who the fuck fucks Claire Danes? Sorry, when’s the Q&A? There’s another letter to an “Uncle” about what Africa is like presumably about that time Parker flew on Virgin to pick up her Ethiopian baby. The happiest day of her life. Third happiest for the Ethiopian baby. According to the breathless New York Times book reviewer, this is heady stuff. I got ninety-nine percent of it already from her IMDB bio. I’ll assume the rest is fodder for women who admire single moms with nothing but millions in TV syndication residuals to furnish their Vermont homes in original Ethan Allen. The difference between an autobiography and memoirs is that you’re supposed to die after your memoirs. You’ve still got five years left on those tits. Take it back.