STOP THE PRESSES!

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by Joe Buonfiglio

STOP THE PRESSES!  Actor, poet, “Dead Body #3” in an upcoming summer tentpole blockbuster and Buttcrack Brady’s 24-Hour Plumbing spokesperson The Actor Formerly Known As (artist’s name withheld due to his extremely intimidating legal representation and my lack thereof) is reported to have eaten a corned beef sandwich at a well-known Santa Monica bistro.  Some witnesses passing by say a cold beer may have been involved.

Having just appeared as a guest on the internationally acclaimed talk show “Vegan Today with Emily Emaciated” — whereby he shamelessly plugged his patented “miso soup & vodka diet” before belligerently touting the planetary abuses triggered by the unsanitary emissions of cattle and their unhygienic orifice d’fly-lure — his comestible practices in broad daylight further fueled the rumors that perhaps he is a closet Satanist.

Seriously?  Why do we give a shit?  This is how I’m now expected to spend my free time when I’m not drunk, watching the game drunk, or drunk-banging the neighbor’s cat I’m supposed to be “sitting” while they’re taking their nose-picking progeny to Disney World for the tenth time in three years.  And it’s not just me, so don’t think you’re getting off that easy.  What the hell is wrong with us as a collective society?

Now admittedly, I’m totally fascinated by people who are … well … totally fascinated by celebrity.  And not just the big stuff where the rich-n-famous kill themselves with heroin or get killed being run off the road by paparazzi, or even if they run stoned and naked down Main Street with their dick stuck in a beer bottle yelling “I thought the opening was bigger!  I thought the opening was bigger!”

No, I’m talking about the trivial shit; the minutiae.  Face it; we wait with bated breath for our most-beloved celeb’s latest tweet or Facebook post about the handbag she’s thinking of buying or how some asshole just cut him off on Sunset or “OMG! I can’t believe I just ate a French fry!  I’m SO naughty!” or “Look at this selfie of me taking my sixth dump of the day; the kale shakes are working!”  It’s that little minute-by-minute update letting the starved-for-the-famous world know that they decided to try the 2% milk due to the horror of coming to the realization that their concierge-marketplace was out of fat-free; that’s what I just don’t get.

I don’t care about the celebrity doing it; they’re just insecure publicity-whores who need to do this to stay relevant.  In a sad little microcosm of it all, it’s probably the same reason I pound away at my PC keyboard and churn out this strange little blog.  But it begs the question: WHY do they NEED to do this to stay relevant?

The answer?  Because we fame-civilians walking in mundane obscurity are all star-stalking voyeurs who DEMAND they do it.  If they don’t, we’ll turn on them quicker than a car rammed by the LAPD in a PIT maneuver.  We feast upon it to fill the hole in our miserably boring lives and stave off the starvation of happiness in our unfulfilled souls.

Don’t look at me like that.  You know I’m right about this one.  If I was the celeb of the moment, you’d be masturbating as you read this and don’t pretend as if you wouldn’t be.

I’m speaking metaphorically, of course.

You’re not charring the chubby at this moment, are you?  No, really; ’cause that’s just sick.

I digress.  Anyway, let’s take the case of writer, actor, producer, multi-hyphenate Kevin Smith.

I love Kevin Smith.  I love him; think he’s brilliant.  At any rate, his stuff cracks me up.  From Clerks to Mallrats to Zack and Miri Make a Porno to TV’s Comic Book Men: all great products of craft.  For me, Dogma and Red State are genius.  But when he tweets some on-the-ice tidbit from the LA Kings’ hockey game, I have to ask: why do I care?

Smith is smart; social-media savvy smart.  There is nobody — NOBODY — who gets the online fanboy/fangirl shit better than he does.  He knows his fans, both existing and yet-to-be-created, crave this shit.  They MUST have it.

But why?  Why do we give a rat’s ass?  I can’t afford the great seats he probably has at the game.  Why don’t I feel like he’s shoving it up my ass in that he’s at the game and I’m not?  Why do I care what he reports on sports and other matters outside of his chosen profession?  An update on the game; isn’t that what the late-night news’ sportscaster is for?  Why, in God’s name, should I give a shit?

But that’s just it; I DO give a shit; a big, steaming pile of it.  And, so do you when it comes to whatever star that you drool like an old English Bulldog over.  That’s just the way it is.  We live vicariously in even the most routine moments of the celebs’ lives.  It’s one more reason why the Human Race deserves all the end-of-the-world revulsions some predict are coming down the pike for us.

To cynical?  Too much of an indictment, Mr. & Ms. Glass Half Full?

Well, then I guess you’ll have no interest in the drunk-selfie of me banging my neighbor’s tabby I just put up on Twitter @JoeBuonfiglio.

You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? … … … That’s my point.

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© 2014 Joseph P. Buonfiglio

 

 

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