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The Celebrity Gossip Challenge

The Celebrity Gossip Challenge

You can take the girl out of L.A., but you can’t take L.A. out of the girl.

Of what sunny, 75 degree mystery do I speak? My obnoxious overuse of “like” every 6th word? The perma-blonding of my naturally brunette locks? (Which, naturally, I must run my fingers through and flip, ever-so-disaffectedly, over my shoulders every sixty seconds). The ovo-lacto-veggie-yoga bandwagon I ride all over the place? The Olsen Twin-sized sunglasses of self-importance I rock even in the snowiest of storms, and at night? The jeans, flip flops and breast-hugging bitch-beaters (go ahead and hate on me feminists – hate!) that are the unofficial Team Cool uniform of my hometown?

None of the above. The L.A. I just can’t wash out of my big fake blond hair is my hyper-obsessive compulsion with all things celebrity scandalicious.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that no matter how many years I spend reflecting on high art in Paris museums or pondering the evolution of civilization among ancient Roman ruins, I will always be a product of my environment. An environment that manufactures and markets “celebrities” (a tenuous term in the age of premeditated sex tapes and reality TV “stars”) no differently than Mercedes turns rough, dirty heavy metal into shiny, $100,000 Coupes. Yes, Miss Cultivated Globe Trotting Smarty Pants, so lofty and erudite with all her big words and ideas, confesses here and now that I am a slave to the Celebrity Industrial Complex. Hollywood is my culture and I own it. When a Kardashian or a Hilton weeps, I weep too.

But oh!, the shame that would come upon me if you only knew how many times TMZ and Gawker have lured me from composing this simple post! Which, I’m now reminded after getting the skinny on Jennifer Aniston’s current baby food diet - are you kidding me! – brings me to the point of it.

As of late, I’ve realized how distracting, time-consuming and lowest common denominator my obsession has become. Much like the tragic cast of D-listers fighting addiction in Dr. Drew’s Sober House, I have my own sad habit to kick. Them. To be fair, I can’t put the onus of my shortcomings entirely on my Tinseltown upbringing. Surely, there must be something lacking in my own superficial life that makes me turn to the superficiality of the celebrity “Other.”

So, after much thought, I’ve decided it’s time to go cold turkey, to give up the celebs and reflect on the how and why of my celebrity dragon chasing, to delve deep into my unfulfilled soul and get at the roots of my unholy infatuation with the vacuous and vainglorious. Why do I give a shit about who Jesse or Tiger’s screwing, which umpteenth detox Gwyneth is wasting away on, what forgotten third world country Madonkey or Angelina is plucking babies from, why Britney can’t keep a bra on, when Daddy Lohan is going to ambush Lindsay with an intervention, if Snookie and the Situation are tonguing it up all over Miami? Ohmigod! Make it stop!!!

Did I really trudge through two and a half years of Nietzsche, Blake, Said, Dostoevsky, Kant and Camus in graduate school to come to this? Oh, how hard and fast the mighty fall when the Met Gala red carpet pics are rolled out!

Obviously, my disease must be cured, which is why I’m in self-imposed fatwa mode, to be known henceforth as the Celebrity Gossip Challenge. As of Monday, I shall attempt to go an entire week – and that’s a seven day week, not one of those lax and shabby five day work weeks –  without so much as the slightest whiff of my favorite celeb rags. Au revoir The Dirty! Sayonara Huff Po! Piss off Page Six!

And, for the sake of the catharsis and support that every addict needs, I shall be checking in from time to time with you, my Pink Vanilla army, to report on the agonizing pangs of withdrawal I’m sure to suffer, with sweats and chills in the cold, lonely night, on my road to celluloid recovery.

Care to join me or share any encouraging words of solidarity during my Tinseltown 12 Step? Nobody ever got sober alone, friends!


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