See, Michael, you can’t bail on us now. Don’t disappear behind those gilded gates and leave us out here twisting in the unsurreal world.
Remember what happened after the O. J. Simpson trial ended, when the country spiraled into a mass depression? Reporters stared emptily at their notebooks; joke writers for Leno and Letterman were put under a suicide watch. For nearly three dismal years, there was nothing to talk about except important stuff, like soaring health-care costs and welfare reform and the genocide in Africa.
But then came Monica Lewinsky, and it was showtime—sex in the White House! Once again we were a nation intellectually at peace, blissfully obsessed by scandal. That’s why we’re begging, Michael. As arduous as the trial was for you, it was an opiate for the rest of the country.
Think of what you spared us. Every day for three months, 2,200 reporters who could have been digging up serious stories elsewhere were instead camped out with the tabloids at the courthouse. No case could have been more insignificant to our everyday lives, our well-being, or the future of the planet—which is why we couldn’t get enough of it. We’re hopelessly, hungrily hooked on squalid spectacle. We crave the inane and irrelevant. It’s our national dope; a legal way to stay stoned.
So, what depressing headlines are we left with today?
Body counts from Baghdad. The murder trial of a senescent ex-Klansman. Terri Schiavo’s autopsy report.
O, where art thou, Macaulay Culkin? Whither goeth Tito and La Toya?
You might be a free man, Michael Jackson, but the rest of us are prisoners of reality.
Come back soon. Before the civil trial.
March 4, 2007
We Have Seen the Future, and It’s Not Pretty
Now that Anna Nicole Smith is at long last departed from Florida, it’s time to confront a simmering disgust over the media’s salivating treatment of this dreary event.
Was the press coverage excessive? You bet.
Mindless? Inevitably.
Tasteless? Rapturously so.
But this is the new New Journalism, which is steered by a core belief that people would rather be smothered by seedy gossip about dead ex-Playmate junkies than be bothered with the details of North Korea’s nuclear program. Like the Don Henley song says, crap is king. We are merely here to serve.
If you Googled Anna Nicole’s name last week, you got 28.8 million hits—10 times more than that of Condoleezza Rice, who is only the U.S. secretary of state.
Debate all you wish about whether the public’s interest is fueling the Anna Nicole overkill or the overkill is inflating the public’s interest. The fact is, lots of people are hungry for the story—and not because they care one bit about this poor woman or her child. It’s necro-tainment, that’s all. The five-car pileup on the interstate. The stunt plane crashing at the air show. The train derailment caught on tape.
As soon as Smith’s death became known, a small army of print and broadcast reporters swarmed to Fort Lauderdale, grabbed spots in the shade outside the courthouse, and began tracking the day’s legal proceedings, which they dutifully regurgitated to their readers and audiences. Not since the O. J. Simpson murder trial have so much manpower and so many resources been thrown at a story of so little ultimate consequence to society.
Scoff, if you will, at the hyperventilating TV coverage of the Smith case. You think it’s easy trying to make Anna Nicole sound important enough to justify three minutes and twenty seconds of airtime? That’s a tough job, folks. Here you’ve got this deceased person who had no discernible talent whatsoever, a pitiable and often incoherent soul who perished in a shabby and unoriginal way. Yet day after day, you must with all seriousness face the cameras and present Smith’s demise (and its messy, freak-filled aftermath) as a matter of pressing significance.
How does such a forlorn cliché become elevated to major breaking news? Many journalism students are probably pondering the same riddle. The answer isn’t pretty. In a nutshell: Former Playboy centerfold turned rich widow turned reality-TV star suddenly dies, leaving an infant of uncertain paternity and a potential fortune up for grabs.
Story-wise, the angles are beauty, sex, money, and greed—classic tabloid ingredients and now a premium formula for mainstream media. For a competitive industry that’s fighting to maintain profit levels and market shares, covering Anna Nicole is relatively cheap and easy, a quick hit; modest investment, maximum return.
Another factor heightened the frenzy: She expired in South Florida, which in February is a dream destination for any journeyman reporter. Had Smith passed away at a Holiday Inn in Buffalo, the throng of invading media would have been much smaller—and far more eager to leave.
Now the circus shifts to Nassau, where visiting journalists face a dicey new challenge: how to conceal their windsurfing lessons and casino losses on their expense accounts. It’s money that could be spent in pursuit of serious news in Darfur or Pakistan, or even back home, where there is likely some crime and corruption waiting to be exposed. But this is a new dawn for modern journalism. The smelly stuff that was once left to the capable vultures at the Star and the Enquirer is now front-page fodder in your hometown paper and the lead story on the six o’clock news.
Dead or alive, celebrities rule. And it’s never been easier to become a celebrity.
Although the Anna Nicole blitz hasn’t much illuminated or informed, neither has it been a total waste of time. For example, attentive readers and viewers picked up some helpful information about how quickly the human body decomposes, both before and after embalming.
CSI Miami, eat your heart out.
Don’t make the mistake of dismissing the Smith story as an anomaly; it’s a media watershed. If the death of a hapless, doped-up ex-model can knock two wars out of the headlines, there’s no end to the squalid possibilities.
We have seen the future, and it’s in the gutter.
November 29, 2009
Johnston’s Fifteen Minutes Are Up
Times are hard, but the pathway to fame in America has never been easier.
No talent is required—you can go on a shooting spree, give birth to octuplets, or launch a homemade balloon from your backyard and tell the cops that your little boy is trapped inside. Gripped by a stubborn recession and war anxiety, Americans remain the world’s most ravenous consumers of a celebrity journalism that features nitwits and naïfs over Nobel laureates.
Exhibit A is a person named Levi Johnston, who ascended to junior stardom by knocking up Sarah Palin’s oldest daughter. He’s not the first teenager who forgot to use a condom, but few others have milked their dumb mistake with such gusto.
There’s Levi on CBS’s The Early Show, ominously suggesting he knows dark secrets about Palin.
There he is being interviewed in Vanity Fair as if he were a matinee idol, and there he is again in the pages of GQ, diapering the new baby.
There he is on Tyra and Larry King Live. And there he is at the Teen Choice Awards, a hope-affirming presence for all young unwed fathers.
There he is again in a national TV commercial, breaking pistachio nuts while the announcer wryly says, “Now Levi Johnston does it with protection.”
And finally, there he is in Playgirl magazine, displaying every part of his anatomy except the one that propelled him into the headlines.
The spectacle isn’t entirely Levi’s fault. He didn’t set out to be famous, but last fall he suddenly found himself in the spotlight—presented to the world as the future son-in-law of the future vice president of the United States.
He was a popular kid, but he quit high school and had family problems, including a mother battling a drug habit. The McCain-Palin campaign dressed him up and gave him a prominent place next to pregnant Bristol at the Republican National Convention. The couple would soon be married, Palin announced brightly, although Levi’s facial expression didn’t exactly radiate serenity.
He and Palin’s daughter both deserve some sympathy. The out-of-wedlock pregnancy was a potential embarrassm
ent to the campaign, which had been working to portray Palin as a conservative Christian crusading for traditional family values. Levi and Bristol were given upright roles to play, and they hung in there until Election Day. Afterward, the wedding plans were scuttled, baby Tripp was born, and Levi says the Palins began to treat him coldly. Instead of going back to Alaska and politely fading away, he hired a manager-slash-bodyguard. This, of course, is the American way. Nobody settles for just 15 minutes of fame.
Obviously, it was explained to Levi that his marketability would be enhanced—and fame prolonged—if he could dish some dirt about Palin. It was a brand-new role, but he warmed to it. Levi now asserts that Palin isn’t the all-American mom that she makes herself out to be—for example, she doesn’t really cook much at home!
At first she wanted to hide Bristol’s pregnancy, he claims, and adopt the child herself. Worse, he says, she sometimes referred to her own infant with Down’s syndrome as “the retarded baby.”
That Levi was saying such things wasn’t nearly so disturbing as some of the media’s reaction, which was to treat the kid like he was Ben Bernanke expounding on long-term interest rates. Even if Levi’s stories are true, he isn’t sharing them to save the country from a Palin presidency. He’s hustling, period.
The irony is pungent. He owes his own overnight fame to the overnight fame of the woman he’s bad-mouthing. They are forever joined as family by his fathering of a Palin, and are destined to orbit the tabloid universe in tandem.
Once Palin quit the governorship to give speeches and sell books, she refueled Levi’s dubious celebrity. It’s no accident that his Playgirl photo spread coincided with the rollout of her memoir. The snippy war of words benefits both of them. She sells more books, he gets more face time on television. What other kid from Wasilla ever heard himself called out on Oprah?
Certainly the media can be blamed for overhyping Levi, but he’d evaporate like a moose burp if the public quit paying attention. We are easily and shamelessly intrigued.
So, for all you Levi Johnston fans, here’s the latest: While hanging out at Hollywood’s trendy Chateau Marmont, he said he might soon be Dancing with the Stars, and he’s also considering—hang on to your hockey sticks—a gig on Survival.
The networks say it’s not true, but who are you going to believe?
A book deal can’t be far off and, after that, maybe a reality show with Octomom and Balloon Boy.
Rock on, Levi. Give the people what they want.
December 14, 2009
What Was Tiger Thinking?
Rejected first draft of a statement by Tiger Woods prepared for his website.
Two weeks ago on this page, I apologized for my personal transgressions and pleaded for the media to give me and my family some privacy.
Who was I kidding?
Now I’ve got helicopters buzzing my house, paparazzi staking out the gym, and even that dog Letterman is making fun of me. Each day some new babe is holding a press conference or selling her story to a tabloid.
Clearly, I need a new public relations strategy. Maybe the time has come to be totally honest and set the record straight.
To all the women who claim to have had wild sex with me: Enough already! I give up. There are so many that my lawyers can’t sort out the real girlfriends from the phony girlfriends. I suppose it’s possible that I slept with all of them, but I honestly don’t remember. That Ambien—it seriously kicks butt.
But hey, I’m not blaming drugs. Whatever happened in all those hot tubs and elevators was my fault and mine alone. I’m basically just a hound, okay? Another sex-crazed jock who can’t say no when the opportunity presents itself.
Anybody who grows up hitting a thousand golf balls a day never dreams of becoming a sex magnet for hotties. Let’s face it, the PGA ain’t exactly the NBA.
But now I’ve hurt my family and messed up my life, and somehow I’ve got to make things right. Instead of hiding out like a billionaire coward, I’m going to man up.
Concerned fans have been flooding my website with e-mails, and I’d like to candidly answer a few of the most frequently asked questions.
John F., in Akron, writes: “Dear Tiger, what exactly is a VIP club hostess?”
Well, John, VIP club hostesses are gorgeous single women who work at fancy nightclubs where ordinary mokes like you can’t get past the front door.
But that’s a good thing, because these slinky vixens would only seduce you and promise not to tell a soul and then call your BlackBerry in the middle of the damn night and wake up your wife and …
Anyway, stay away from those hostesses!
Rick K., in Phoenix, writes: “Dear T.W., what really happened the night you crashed your Escalade?”
Dude, I don’t remember anything except the sound of breaking glass and then somebody hollering at me in Swedish.
Louise W., in Orlando, follows up: “But why wouldn’t you agree to be interviewed by the Highway Patrol?”
Good question, Louise. For days after the accident, I wasn’t even able to speak. When my SUV struck that tree, a three-iron must have fallen out of the branches and crashed through the windshield and smashed me right in the mouth.
It’s possible, right?
Mary M., in Atlanta, writes: “Dear Tiger, is it true that you’re losing sponsors because of the scandal?”
That’s absolutely false! All my corporate sponsors are loyally supporting me, including that big sports equipment company, the razor company, and the high-energy beverage company. I’d mention them all by name, but they’ve asked me not to do that (or be photographed using their products) for at least the next six months. Their lawyers have been very nice about it, though.
Jerry L., in New York, writes: “Dear Mr. Woods, I was shocked by the explicit text messages that you exchanged with some of your girlfriends. What do you have to say to all your disappointed fans?”
Look, Jer, I’m not perfect, and I’m obviously not as smart as everyone thought.
None of my cool buds like Jeter or Jordan ever explained to me that text messages just sort of float around cyberspace forever. Is that the scariest thing you ever heard?
No wonder I’ve got insomnia.
Tanya L., in Las Vegas, writes: “Hey, Tiggy, remember me from that time in the penthouse at Caesar’s when—”
Nice try, Tanya. Or whatever your real name is.
Mike G., in Miami Beach, writes: “Dear Wood Man, you are my hero! I mean, like, porn stars? Seriously?”
Whoa, Mike. They didn’t tell me they were porn stars. They said they worked for Cirque du Soleil. I guess all those dragon tattoos should have tipped me off.
Tony R., in Pebble Beach, writes: “Dear Tiger, I can’t hit a downhill bunker shot to save my life. Should I switch to a 60-degree wedge?”
Stick with your 56-degree, Tony, but play the ball in the center of your stance with the clubface slightly open.
And by the way, God bless you for asking.
April 30, 2011
The Donald Makes (Almost) Humble Speech
Rejected first draft of Donald Trump’s final announcement about his political intentions in 2012.
First let me say how proud I am of myself for heckling Barack Obama until he produced the “long form” of his birth certificate, something no white president managing two wars and a budget crisis has ever been asked to do. At long last, the national debate can move on to other idiotic conspiracy theories, which I may or may not exploit to boost my TV ratings.
Tonight, though, belongs to the 50 billion Donald J. Trump fans who’ve tuned in to see the season’s last episode of Celebrity Apprentice. To all my fellow Americans watching at home, and to all of you gathered here in the boardroom, the waiting is over.
[Pause for spontaneous applause from studio audience.]
Before I reveal my decision about whether or not to seek the presidency of the United States, I want to say a few words to all those pundits and bloggers who’ve been viciously attacking my integrity d
uring these last few weeks.
To start with, I’m not a racist.
What I am is an egotistical gasbag who will say or do anything for attention. There’s a big difference!
Just because I needlessly insulted a black president and fired La Toya Jackson (and, okay, Dionne Warwick), that doesn’t make me a racist. I fired Gary Busey, too, didn’t I? And he’s as white as they come.
Other critics have questioned my truthfulness regarding my enormous, mind-boggling wealth. It’s true that on occasion I have exaggerated my net worth by a few billion dollars, and also perhaps overstated my stake in certain high-profile real-estate projects.
Does that make me a liar and a poseur? No. It makes me a guy who talks big, and that’s just what this nation needs: more bigheaded white guys talking big.
Now for the announcement that all of you are awaiting: After consulting with my family, my political advisers, and of course my close personal friend Martha Stewart, I’ve reluctantly decided not to seek the Republican nomination for president.
[Dramatic pause for a collective groan of disappointment from the audience.]
Let me give you my reasons for this very difficult decision.
Ever since I braced President Obama about his birth certificate, I’ve been hounded by the media to produce my own birth records (which is fine), my tax returns going back five years (which I’m looking for), my contract with NBC (which I’ve misplaced, though I’m pretty sure it’s in my golf locker down at Mar-a-Lago), a list of all current corporate holdings and mortgage positions (like I keep track), and a sworn affidavit from my hairstylist stating that no orangutans were harmed during the weaving of my toupee.
Make no mistake: These petty demands are meant only to distract voters from the more serious issues I’ve raised, such as whether or not I’m richer than Mitt Romney (I am!).
Tragically, the frivolous and mean-spirited nature of the debate has taken a toll on my family, which is the second most important thing in my life. In good conscience, I can’t put my kids through a grueling presidential campaign in which they’ll hear their father maligned as a publicity-grubbing charlatan who couldn’t find Yemen on Google Earth.