Fame

I love celebrity magazines, celebrities, and all the trash that comes with it. When I was younger, I always wanted to be famous for…something, I didn’t care what. I can’t even IMAGINE what the hell I was thinking, given that I couldn’t even handle the attention lobbed on me at my own wedding, and the second I get a fleurn of hate comment anywhere, I’m all pissy and indignant and hurt. And also: I have no talent that would lend me to being famous. Nor could I possibly imagine bringing my dog anywhere public, let alone an event. I mean, honestly, Tinkerbell has no place on the red carpet, and neither does Sunny. And again: being the center of attention beyond a group of, say, two, is enough to give me mega-hives and also, weep into my hands. And also, I am usually shy in a large group unless I am threatened or scared, in which case I go SUPER DUPER OUTGOING, and start telling people – loudly – about that one time, at band camp, that I wore shorts that were too tight and got my first yeast infection and thought the world was ending because my crotch was about to fall off.*

Anyway, this does not mean that I don’t adore celebrity magazines, celebrity gossip and my GOD, celebrity photos and rags, yes! MORE! And here again, is where I go all counter-judgy on you – nothing irritates me more than people who pretend that they are above it, and go on and on about it like gah, those of us who care are somehow stranded in a giant cesspool of misery, like we have nothing better to do but wonder about Brad and Angelina and what about poor Jen? These same people usually claim they don’t watch television because there is more culture other places and television is the root of all evil. What, do you think it somehow makes you superior because you don’t care about Brangelina or Bennifer or – my God – reality TV?

Because I contest that if you are taking the time to lecture me about how stupid it is, and I am for listening to it, or how you just don’t care because really, that is just *trash*, and I should know better or be smarter or SOMEthing, then perhaps you do care, you just don’t want to admit it, and somehow, maybe you think it makes you a little more…highbrow than me, the same way you don’t want to admit to having to overcome the urge almost daily to eat butter with a spoon. Or maybe not, and I really am that shallow. But hey, leave me to my illusions as it makes me feel better to think so because yes, I am slightly embarrassed about it and I KNOW I should be re-reading Kierkegaard or something instead, but it’s US Weekly, I can’t help it.

Anyway: Britney interview, which I nearly mowed down the entire parking lot of Sweet Bay supermarkets to get home for. Hello, um, what? I felt overwhelmingly sorry for her because she’s just not…bright or cultured enough to see what’s really out there, and gah, I mean, Britney, come ON. It’s over, and yet, there I am, rooting for her to say something bright, and it NEVER HAPPENED. But let’s talk about what was transfixing about this interview: her boobs. Hello, boobs! BOOBS! And what was that thing – that CHUNK of mascara in her right eye, like an extra piece of chocolate dangling there in case she got a craving later? It was all I could look at, and it was the only thing that tore my eyes away from the boobs.

I’m wondering if she has extra, really, because I have a set of barely Bs that could use some perking up.

So, if you’re not the type to celebrity watch, I highly recommend it because really, it is SO satisfying, in that cotton-candy kind of way, and whenever you think life is bad, just remember: at least you can go to Starbuck’s uninterrupted, and no one is watching you when you pick your underwear out of your ass. Small gifts, people. I do ask, however, that you not get your celeb advice from Perez Hilton, because seriously, the man is a) a needlessly snarky jerk and b) a plagiarist, and has stolen many, many snippets from other bloggers all over the blogosphere, including my very clever friend Katie, more than once. And amazingly, he actually admitted it when confronted by throngs of angry perfumistas. So, you know, down with Perez, which is a shame.

And here ends the first in a regular series: Fluffy Fridays, to match how fluffy I look, as though I am stuffed to the brim with quilt batting, as yes, the bloating continues. Just put me on a parade float and pretend I am the Marshmallow Man.

*This actually happened, and yes, I’ve told people at parties.

**David Bowie

20 comments June 15th, 2006