All this post needs is a bottle of Scotch (And one lone tear)
Did you know that there are more than 4,000 species of frog? That’s what the Book of General Ignorance tells us. Of the large number of frogs, only one species says Ribbit. So, why am I giving you this piece of environmental trivia on a site that generally only talks about relationships and society? Because the one type of frog that makes a Ribbit sound are indigenous to the forests around Hollywood, California. Yes, the Ribbit Ribbit noise that we have assimilated into our culture is a function of Hollywood going into its backyard and taping sounds for a movie with a male cow with utters or a bear in an Indian jungle.
Lee and I have written several articles now revolving around the theme of people supplanting their identities for an illusionary reality created by the media. We write it because we think that it is important. I know that we have trashed Mickey Rourke a few times but he has such a depth of crazy that his insanity bubbles up like a natural spring, washing over us with the pure waters of KooKoo. I just watched his Spirit Award acceptance speech. And, yes, I laughed at him like I would any psychotic off their meds but then I got that worried, sad feeling. I was not the only one watching this clip. There are others out there looking at him ramble, curse and inappropriately cry who are thinking, ‘I want to be like him’. They see him as a rebel who speaks his mind.
I believe in honesty, as is evidenced by this blog, but what we are seeing is not simple self-truth. The Rourkes, Madonnas, and Phoenixes, everyone that uses their celebrity as a stage to promote their inappropriate, immoral and often unhinged behavior, bring our culture one more step into an identity crisis of its own making. As a society, we have no identity, no value of self worth outside of our aspiration to be Hollywood-like. We want to be thin and rich. Our children seek out same sex experimentation while their parents try to be their friends in Kardasian style.
Now that I have firmly placed all of society’s woes onto Hollywood and the media, I might need to take a little responsibility, though reluctantly, for my part in this. At the simplest level of the hierarchy is the obvious; I listen to all of this stuff. I wouldn’t know that Mickey Rourke is a nut job if I didn’t hang on his every disassociated word. I know the words to the Katy Perry song because, well, I like it.
But it gets worse. I know about this, I am part of this, because I am a little (and now, if I could write the next word in little tiny weenie font, I would) jealous. As I sit here with my unpublished manuscript in hand, I fantasize about being famous in J.K. Rowlings – like fashion. And not the real life, hard earned, celebrity but the fantasy fame. The story of her being on welfare and, with some possibly divine inspiration, creating the Harry Potter series ring in my head. I see an Eliza Doolittle looking woman furtively jotting notes on any scrap of paper available.
Here, my rant trails off into oblivion. I have no solution to squash my own disillusionment. Simply ignoring the behavior does not make it any saner. Schrodinger does not apply here. The box is open and the cat is dead. I’ve looked at the illusion and I liked it but I do not want anyone else to look because that would be bad.
Signed, Hypocrite Looking for Aid.
Lee says: Dear Hypocrite, I am cutting off your MTV. Signed, Debbie Denial