The New National Obsession

We’re obsessed. All of us. Left, right, center, upside and down, everyone just keeps writing and talking and debating Barack Obama. Cruise the blogs, the columnists, talk radio or the news channels and Obama is at the front of everyone’s mind. We can’t stop ourselves. In a culture that salivates over the every move of talentless heiresses and half-sane pop starlets, we’re preconditioned to obsess over larger-than-life personalities. And who in modern America is more fascinating than Obama?

He won’t lose to Hillary Clinton. He can’t. Love him, hate him or find yourself endlessly confused by him, we all want to know where the story goes from here. A loser in the primaries? Unthinkable at this point. He doesn’t just have momentum, he has destiny. We can’t look away.

John McCain will need all the forces of luck and clear-headed rationality if he hopes to have a chance in November. Obama has the spotlight and it doesn’t look like he’s letting go anytime soon.

Congratulations, You're a Phony!

If there are seven signs of our coming doom this company is certainly one of them. Named Celeb 4 A Day, they allow average joes like you and me to pay for the privilege of being chased around by paparazzi for a few hours. Pay enough and they’ll even provide you with a publicist to keep the paparazzi at bay.

I probably don’t need to be snarky. The inanity of this is self-apparent. But, for the love of God! Is it not enough that the supermarket shelves are plastered in celebrity gossip? Is it not enough that CNN makes the pregnancy of Brittney Spears’ sister a lead story? Are all the Paris Hiltons and Lindsey Lohans and all the talent-less, personality-less, wax-molded reality “stars” not enough to fully satiate our cultural need for fame? People now want to pay hundreds and hundreds of dollars so that they appear famous to all the absolute total strangers who happen to pass by their paparazzi lovefest?

Hey, I’m all for a little decadence in life. But I like mine with some lasting pleasure. So what if you’ve had four, five, six guys snap photos of you for an hour and had onlookers go all agape, trying to figure out who the hell you are. Look at you, you’re famous. Except you’re not. You’re a phony and when the photographers collect their check and leave, you’re still just some schlub who has to spell his name five times to the helpdesk guy in India.

Yeah, I’m probably missing the innocent joy in something like this. But, to me, our fame and celebrity addiction is nausea inducing. If we’re going to be a decadent society, can’t it at least involve old scotch and plates of foie gras?