Your Democracy is Intrusive

I have a message for all the neo-yuppy E! entertainment bozos who honk around their Beverly Hills highrises and mimic the lives of a fully-functioning infatuation with the American Dream. All you perverted missteps who hold it in themselves to curry favor with salacious malfeasance that we care about your personal little snow globes. Your microcosms of perfection. You silly little trollops who feels the need to pay to have your babies protected from the mass media papa-rascals and act like it's some grand gesture to the child that your choice to be a cultural icon doesn't interfere with the faded memories they'll have of their birth. You Mr. Who-dee-hoos who are paid to work out five hours a day and make us envy every man we've ever loved because they never, ever looked like you. With your twenty dollar sport drinks and your succulent little assertions that you're "just like everybody else" just like People magazine. Modified by photoshop and filters and fandom. Minimized by the disbelief that anything real and substantial resides in Variety. It's morbid how you've been mummified by your stocking stuffed false talents. Your ability to pretend like cameras aren't there.

You could say it's envy. It's easy to want those things for yourself: the sexy slander, the constant assertion of a weekly yearbook. A smile and a sweep. A trap and a lie. A giggle and a wink. Just because you fell in love with the icon doesn't make you one. But you could still say what I speak of is envy, that eternal want to be nothing more than an image. To only exist on a two-dimensional plane. To only be as important as your movie is grossing, your stomach is pregnant, your TV show is viewed. How many covers you make, it would be a dream to only have to care as much as your agent still calls you. To live your life for an object and pretend like it hasn't worn away your psyche enough to realize you aren't even a real person to most people.

This gives you the right to pretend like we all want to be near you and we all want to be you. We all want to breathe your essence as much as we buy your perfume. We all want a little more famous. And congratulations to you for having it.

I do not begrudge those with the talent. Those who trap themselves in the truth of their abilities and recognize how easily that could slip away. Those who realize that no matter how much you dated the most famous red head in the biz, that your completely and utterly replaceable by five hip hop artists performing in their own respective hometowns right now. Those of you who know there is more talent in some high school musical productions than there is in the highest grossing film of last weekend. You are the lucky ones, understanding that you may have made it far enough to suckle at Hedonism's tit but that only a shadow of it is reality and you could lose that at anytime. Those of you who don't feel entitled to your name, your image, your clothing line. Those of you who don't sue for slander. I do not begrudge you, because you are the human kind.

Yes, yes, I have a message for the fortunate two-dimensional fatsos who falsify their importance with scandal and chaos. Those who run the endless publications on their own emigrated lifestyles. You are only as important as we make you, and we could take that away. I don't think the majority recognizes that we have this democratizing power. And when we do, and stop caring, all your power is gone. Blame the life of fame you drew out for yourself, your snide pitiful attempts to convince us your not only as talented at the thirteen year old next door neighbor who will probably be a nurse or a dental assistant even though her range rivals most pop-songstresses of the day. You are replaceable. So stop pretending like we care so much that when you do something awful, something repugnant and rude, that we'll all just squeal to see your new bouncing baby single or your new hair cut that defines your generation. You're not special, you're just lucky.