Tag Archives: pop culture

Oh, why yes of course there is…

This really shouldn’t surprise me, but even my jaded people-watching soul didn’t see this coming:

Even as rescued teenage sailor Abby Sunderland makes her way back home to California, a battle is shaping up over who will tell the story of her harrowing sea voyage — and what the story line will be.

Who will tell the story? What the story line will be?! What is the wha-what? Can’t believe I forgot there was money to be made off the event.

The possibility of dueling narratives emerged this week as a Los Angeles production team and Abby’s parents squabbled over the back story of her attempted around-the-world journey.

Heh heh. Just that there’s a “production team” involved tells me all I need to know. It sounds like a stupid story — pointless risks for a “world record” that will only race to the bottom, toward younger and younger solo sailors.

It remains unclear whether any type of film or reality TV show will emerge from Abby’s aborted trip. But the possibility has intensified debate over the Sunderland brand image and whether her story should be celebrated or serve as a cautionary tale.

Brand image! Awesome. Yes, do get the story straight, won’t you? I need to know which life lesson your inspiring personal saga should teach me. The article goes on to say the dad went on Larry King Live to defend himself which — I’m sorry, you wouldn’t need to straighten your story with anyone unless you intended to milk it. It’s true, buddy, you really can return to anonymity if you just resist the urge to feed the masses. But I’m betting you wouldn’t be here in this situation if you could do that.

This is one of those deals, like your average Kardashian what-not, where I’m sorry I’m even vaguely aware of who the person is. (Who are these people, where do they come from, and why do they try so hard to get us to care?!)

‘My Sextape Nightmare’

I have this disconnect, part of my love-hate relationship with my species: I like life. I like people. I feel connected to people. But boy they can sort of make me sick. I like stories. I like people telling me their stories. But my, am I turned off by people who live manufactured stories for the sole purpose of packaging them for sale.

I was in the long grocery store line today. (DAMMIT I always make the mistake of going to the curiously short line, which is always the line everyone’s abandoned because of the slow checker!) I was listening to my iPod, scanning strangers, eyes finally wandering to the tripe that passes for reading material in the checkout line. (I really should just bring a book.) My eyes stopped on some celeb-watching magazine’s cover that said: “Kendra: My Sextape Nightmare.”

…which of course cracked my shit up. There was something in the subhead about her worrying about her baby finding out about the tape or something. I don’t know who Kendra is (I notice I’m hearing her name more and more), but if you have a sextape, no one cares unless you’re trying to become famous. Even if you have a child, your child can probably get over the sextape (“sex is natural, hon’, birds and bees”) — unless of course the tape was in some way related to you trying to become famous.

I figure except for the extraordinarily strange and unlucky, if you have a sextape and the media cares about it, you either deliberately leaked the thing to become (more) famous, or you made it at a time when you wouldn’t have minded if it one day helped you become famous.

So I’m sorry about your nightmare and your kid, I guess. But unless you really are a mess (and signs point to … yes), the child will probably get over it.

Advertisements

They actually write about a soccer player’s girlfriend’s pants

You know how it goes: Someone sends you a link to a story, then you follow that link to another story, then before you know it you’ve spiraled down a curve of sites where each one is laid out even more obnoxiously than the previous one — all with the purpose of misleading you into thinking there is something worth reading, so they can coax a cheap click and a pop-up ad “impression” or two out of you.

Before you know it, you’ve peeked into an area of humanity you wish you didn’t know existed. Like England’s Daily Mail (spare yourself, don’t click):

It appears Christine Bleakley didn’t pack enough wardrobe supplies for her latest extended stay at boyfriend Frank Lampard’s home.

The One Show presenter was today seen leaving the Chelsea star’s residence wearing the same grey jeans and blazer she wore out on Saturday night.

She was also carrying the identical 2.55 Chanel handbag that she was totting 48 hours earlier as she celebrated Chelsea’s FA Cup win against Portsmouth at Chinawhites.

The 31-year-old, who left his residence with a small suitcase in tow, had however packed a fresh white T-shirt and a change of shoes.

Seriously.

I mean, fucking seriously?!

This is why I keep mass society at arm’s length.

I know, I know: big whoop, so they stalk celebrities — this is not news (no pun intended). But the amount of meaningless detail in that lead — I mean HER PANTS WERE THE WHOLE POINT OF THE STORY! — is nauseating. Some Lin-tney Agui-spears-kesha-ferg is dating a footballer and we happen to know what she wore the other night on the town, as well as what she wore after shacking up with her boyfriend. And oh, isn’t it grand? She didn’t even have a change of clothes, so I guess we’re implying she didn’t intend to … really now.

In all seriousness, it is appalling she was toting the same handbag as two nights before, isn’t it? Some people have no class…