The Soapbox: Rants and Commentary: CELEBRITIES, YOU MAKE OUR LIVES COMPLETE Composed by Cameron Koo(camkoo@ion.com.au) What is it about celebrities that’s just so damn fascinating? Why do we find ourselves engorged with delight as the A-list luminaries pilot our colorless lives through prime-time television, while the ones with divorce settlements and taxation problems endorse everything we don’t want or need? As we stand in supermarket queues, we devotedly pore over the pages of gossip magazines just to gain a glimpse into their private lives. Who they sleep with, what they wear, what they eat, what witty thing they were overheard saying, is all essential knowledge for our spiritual calm. This is why stars merit our love and devotion. They bring joy and exhilaration to our miserable lives so it goes without saying that they are worthy of more attention than our own family members, those leeches. What have they ever done for us? Constant burdens who sponge like the parasites they are, unlike celebrities, who give so much and ask for so little. Because our pathetic lives have been tinged colorless with lusterless somber, we must diligently keep up with Thorn and Macy’s pending nuptials on ‘The Bold And The Bland’, we must tune in to the world of contrived fisty-cuffs where at any moment a talk show might break out, and we must be fully aware of the illustrious arrival of the new soap-star direct from the land of Warhol. I feel a song coming on. As I take a moment to bring my hyperventilating under control, I ponder where these distinguished celebrities come from. They obviously don’t come from ‘our’ world because ‘our’ world is full of frumpy losers, a realm of suburban anthropoids who’d rather slice out their own spleen with blunt cutlery than face reality because it would be less painful. No, they must originate from a place where teeth are perfect, where ankles are never thick, where hair is always groomed and where cheesy smiles never fade. That’s right, they come from the planet Osmond. Excuse me for a moment or two as I have my tongue surgically removed from my cheek. There, that’s better. I think that’s enough flippancy for one day, so let’s get down to reality - albeit one of short-lived authenticity. Celebrities are idiots. The fewer brain cells on offer, the more eminent the luminary. A lack of talent is another essential requirement as is an honest belief that stardom was achieved through hard work and ability rather than sleeping with a succession of casting agents. Let’s examine in detail the more prominent of the luminary army. The names have been omitted therefore avoiding the deluge of law suits. There’s the newsreader who no one can believe is in his mid fifties, even though he’s got the prostate to prove it. There’s the cool, chiseled-jawed overseas news reporter coming to you from some war-torn hell hole - as he bravely launches into his broadcast from the lobby of his five-star hotel, we cut to a violent montage of death, destruction, rioting and looting - footage that the camera man was sent out earlier to get while our courageous war correspondent was buying duty-free scotch. There’s the female Lotto presenter whose fashion sense is inspired from the Eastern European wheat-bag seconds factory. There’s the game-show wheel girls and prize presenters, (to whom the laws of gravity do not apply) and who can crush ice between their breasts while fondling a collection of white goods. There’s those celebrity contestants, (those of teetering careers) playing for home viewers while donning their ‘best before August 1959’ tags. There’s the squabbling film critics, a couple of real Potsies who know everything about films except how to enjoy them - cowards who preach bravery. And let’s not forget the banal and talentless soap-stars - those insipid drip spittles hanging on grimly as the 14th minute of their fame passes by. Just to watch these celebrity drools is painful - a bit like watching a cat cough up a hair-ball. Excruciating exercises designed to deaden our senses and to decapitate our sensibilities. And don’t bother to channel surf either, because all you’ll get is annoying re-runs of that show with Urkel, or sit-coms with all the belly laughs of a Pauly Shore movie. God help us, where will the insignificance of celebrities end? How far can the suped-up publicity machine carry them? How far can contemptible unimportance be stretched? In some cases, beyond the natural laws of physics it seems. As one celebrity’s wave of success crashes upon the shore of shattered dreams, a replacement steps in from the wings to fill their shoes and the cycle continues. I’d love to say, "all’s well that ends finally," but alas, that’s an impossibility. You see, there’s an endless inventory of celebrities on the planet Osmond and while the demand is growing, so is the supply. So while we faithfully read about Michael Jackson’s kid (the one with his mother’s eyes, his father’s mouth and second nose), we don’t have to contemplate the atrocities of Kosovo or the injustices of Indonesia. And for the brain-dead amongst us, that’s just fine. Copyright © Cameron Koo, May 1999. Used with permission. Back To Rants and Commentary

This document was created using FlexED