Tuesday, April 11, 2006
write a letter, read a wrong
I read this, then wrote the following.
Let's make a pact. Seriously, hands in. This isn't a joke. It's like the 80s: Hands-In America! Okay, now listen up.
Very Important Fact One: They are figments of our collective imagination. Nothing more, nothing less.
Very Important Fact Two: If we all agree to stop caring-if we just don't pay attention to them- they will go away.
Imagine the possibilities. Today, Melissa browsed right past the racks of magazines at the entrance to Barnes and Noble and bought that dirty French novel she'd been meaning to read; Nicole Ritchie went missing. John thought about getting InTouch WithYourMuscles, but he took his dog for a walk instead; Nick Lachey went back to college. Ted decided that he would just sleep on the flight; Kevin Federline imploded, and his atoms were quickly re-distributed across the galaxy. Karen called her mother and wrote an email to a friend from college; Star Jones sighed and simply ceased to be.
It could happen. We could make it happen. We could get interested in our own lives- find out what the hell happened to your cousin, ask the name of the friendly old guy at the end of the block, or even read that article on immigration reform. I'm not demanding a responsible civic public at all once. One small step away from ubiquitous Celebreality would be a giant step for selfhood. If we stopped obsessing about their lives, what toothpaste they prefer, their taste in grocery bags, if we stopped looking to the famous to tell us who to be, we might find ourselves more interested in who we were. Think about it. If we let the cast of the Real World fade into obscurity and go back to junior college, you might be more interested in what happened when you started getting real. We would examine our lives more closely, find them livings worth living. Then Paris, the dark queen of them all, would fall back onto her bed of untold riches, in her nameless hotel, and all without making a sound.
Mu-Paris Hilton
Warning: This song is loud, abrasive electro featuring a Japanese woman screaming about a certain famous personal and repeatedly culcking like a chicken.
Thanks to T. Sincere for the link. ¶ 12:36 AM
I read this, then wrote the following.
Let's make a pact. Seriously, hands in. This isn't a joke. It's like the 80s: Hands-In America! Okay, now listen up.
Very Important Fact One: They are figments of our collective imagination. Nothing more, nothing less.
Very Important Fact Two: If we all agree to stop caring-if we just don't pay attention to them- they will go away.
Imagine the possibilities. Today, Melissa browsed right past the racks of magazines at the entrance to Barnes and Noble and bought that dirty French novel she'd been meaning to read; Nicole Ritchie went missing. John thought about getting InTouch WithYourMuscles, but he took his dog for a walk instead; Nick Lachey went back to college. Ted decided that he would just sleep on the flight; Kevin Federline imploded, and his atoms were quickly re-distributed across the galaxy. Karen called her mother and wrote an email to a friend from college; Star Jones sighed and simply ceased to be.
It could happen. We could make it happen. We could get interested in our own lives- find out what the hell happened to your cousin, ask the name of the friendly old guy at the end of the block, or even read that article on immigration reform. I'm not demanding a responsible civic public at all once. One small step away from ubiquitous Celebreality would be a giant step for selfhood. If we stopped obsessing about their lives, what toothpaste they prefer, their taste in grocery bags, if we stopped looking to the famous to tell us who to be, we might find ourselves more interested in who we were. Think about it. If we let the cast of the Real World fade into obscurity and go back to junior college, you might be more interested in what happened when you started getting real. We would examine our lives more closely, find them livings worth living. Then Paris, the dark queen of them all, would fall back onto her bed of untold riches, in her nameless hotel, and all without making a sound.
Mu-Paris Hilton
Warning: This song is loud, abrasive electro featuring a Japanese woman screaming about a certain famous personal and repeatedly culcking like a chicken.
Thanks to T. Sincere for the link. ¶ 12:36 AM
