Triumphant returns and spectacular failures tend to be the business as usual in the business as usual of Hollywoodland – not much reason to care otherwise – but which celebrities du jour are spiraling into the abyss (Bryan Singer) and which, for whom the bells toll ever so precariously (Marc Webb), will ultimately matter to the populace of two weeks from now offers considerably more meat and potatoes to the question of should we care. The fact is we care and then some because we’ve been weaned on crash-and-burn-notices in our daily smorgasbords of popular catastrophes and consequently someone somewhere needs their fix and if not us then you and if not you then someone with a blog or a web shelf for collecting the finer cobwebs of their two cents. Shining a light on the scabs and the dermabrasions in order to make some semblance of meaning or relativity is what I’ve been doing here for four years – if not with regularity then staggeringly persistent, like a bunch of hobos congregating for reasons unbeknownst to them or the universe of tries.
So we bloggers blog and the blogs go merrily around, or maybe they idle in uphill and downhill fumes fueled by the back biters and bad talkers for whom to pool for moments at a time, mostly nowhere near the well blended or sufficiently homogenized, praying they’ve become part of the blog-o-sphere darlings, desperate to get drunk on anonymity and anxious about their popularity. Lesser successful types go at it in near obscurity, happy to know they’ve pushed something out into the void that might or might not implode like their very own Death Star cataclysm of an ending. Others go at it for lots of reasons that have nothing to do with entertainment. So why do we blog about blogging in the first place, about the proximity and distance to the muck we dream of belonging to or scathing on about to a larger audience when what only truly matters is who is in the spotlight that others might give a rats about?
Perhaps personalities are like balloons in varying stages of full and empty and what most people need is a needle-like reality check that doth oft pop the specter of our routine.
The true success of capturing the fleeting, the almost imperceptible leavings of pop culture anything is discovered in the lull that always comes on in the wake of the latest greatest news bite – that no fantastic departure means you don’t have to worry about getting back to where you left off and beginning again is easy when you’re flat on the ground. It also means you don’t have to think about whether or not anyone noticed or didn’t notice at all. Maybe it’s the whole fame maims and tortures bit, how famous people are only as deep as the layers of their defenses for the awkward insider within – still trying to figure out what it all means if anything.
Blogging for the people that read blogs about people retiring from the spotlight for ten minutes and then in a desperate thirst for one more headline slipping back as though they never quit at all is after all is said and done the greatest Everest known to us. These men and women of fame who spent too long embroiled in torrential meltdowns or falling fast careers think it good to go until they went, however catastrophic punctuated by DUI’s in the middle of starlight and the Hollywood walk of stars. The pomp and circumstances of another writer in the chaos of blogging is a welcome reprieve from anonymity because silence hurts the ego as much as it stains the urgency to escape the mediocrity of the past or not-so-distant present-past swirling around in acrid disdain for everything we think we know about smiling.
We are all fumbling on the 5 yard line, fighting to get back even if we were never that far ahead in the first place. You see, it’s the glow that fades on contact with the air, where notoriety gets gobbled up by distracted popular drivers of fleeting opinions. It’s like the way champion athletes get bumped aside in the broken perpetuity of has-been or ought-to-have-been-longer, quick indiscretions turned wrinkled decisions after years of Ace bandages and Penetrex rub downs, these pop star criminals settling after months of therapy and restorative measures to keep them on the ball and in the groove calling it quits for an office job with a microphone and tailored suit jacket to hide the years of abuse on their aging bravado. And then we all arrive at some forgone conclusion about the last five minutes of time and space that required us to give ourselves over to the possibility of something tangible, something rewarding in our sack of Halloween candy. Only by the time we dump it out and fish through the leavings, sort the ‘eat nows’ from the ‘eat laters’ and the ‘give aways’ it’s too late, the weight of reasonable expectations comes crashing down from way up high and it’s like you’re 5o or 60 going on 120 in the 25mph zone with an angry cop on a motorcycle he hates to ride every day of his life coming up fast and you’ve got nowhere to go but to the side of the road.