Poor Mel Gibson. What's a drunken anti-Semite to do? (My favorite headline today: "Let's Talk About Healing, Mel Asks Jews" from The Australian.)
As Mad Max gets increasingly madder and the frenzy over TomKat's MIA baby grow, I have to pause once again, and thank Christ that my talents are small and few. Otherwise, I would be world famous and inevitably become the daily target of web spites like Go Fug Yourself.
'Fug' is defined by the site's creators, Heather and Jessica, as a contraction of "fantastically ugly." They ponder such things as the mysterious cave in Paula Abdul's chest, Hayden Christiensen dressing awful on purpose to squelch those gay rumors and then there's showbiz veteran Dyan Cannon and her apparent cluelessness on the effects of flash bulbs. That's all fine and dandy but what is truly fun here is the writing - so wicked, so funny, I could've roamed the archives for days. For anyone, like myself, who is allowed to buy People at the airport where no one will seem them, this will be a new playground for ya.
I love that on the far left column of the site, they include proper media endorsements ("Hilarious bitches." --Defamer, "Visciously funny duo." -Hollywood Reporter) alongside actual hate mail from readers ("Your shriveled little hearts must be made of tar." -A reader, "Were you fat in high school? You probably still are." -A reader.)
Less joyful is the accurately named site, The Superficial, which presents a world of unnatural scrutiny on the beautiful people, where actual circles are drawn around celebrity pimples. Consider choice headlines such as "Anna Nicole Smith has no friends," "Brandon Davis' grandma is a liar" and, my favorite, "Lindsay Lohan doesn't like being called fire crotch." Check out their self-explanation:
"The Superficial is a brutally honest look at society and its obsession with the superficial. It is not satire. It is not social commentary. It is the voice of our society at its worst. It is first impressions without sense of social obligation. It is the truth of our generation. It is ugly racism. It is jealousy. It is honest.
Just kidding. Our goal is to make fun of as many people as possible."
So, why am I finding all this refreshing? I guess I'm celebrating the fact that other than the 3-5 people who actually read this blog, the world fails to note my romantic blunders (sounds more cuddly than 'epic failures,' doesn't it?) or the acreage of cellulite quickly grabbing real estate on my thighs or the fact that I just henna-ed my hair and accidentally dyed half of my forehead orange.
Yes, indeed. Times like these, it pays to be a lowly nobody.
4 comments:
I've always wondering about being famous. I've had several people tell me to "move away from here. Californy is the place you oughta be", but I'm quite content with the small amount of notice that I currently have. I make my friends laugh. That's all that's important frankly.
And then I see the trials of the famous. And then jump in the boat with you and thank everything good in this world that it isn't me up on the tabloids. I'd be boring though. I'd tell everyone all my skeletons so no one could hold them over me.
Plus you got us, babe. You'll making someone happy with your writing and that ought to make you fell quite good about yourself.
I'm with you. I've always ended up being a guy people knew and found notoriety to be a pain in the ass. Especially as a little kid in a small town, I was known school-wide for my run-ins with the various authority figures off of whom I took no shit (teachers, principals, bullies). And again when I wrote a music column in the local rag a few years ago, that ran with my mug shot. It's weird being greeted by name by strangers, who assume they have the 411 on you. It's no wonder I adopted pre-emptive dickery to get me safely through adulthood.
It turns out anonymity really IS all it's cracked up to be. As St. Howard is my witness, I'll never be famous again!
Long before the Internet, television, or even the movies, Emily Dickinson wrote about fame in one of her most famous poems:
I am nobody. Who are you?
Are you nobody too?
Then there's a pair of us.
Don't tell - they'd banish us, you know.
How dreary to be somebody,
How public - like a frog -
To tell your name the livelong June
To an admiring bog.
I am happy to be #4
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