Dramedy and interlopers

Drama, drama, drama... it truly is the butterfly wings of the world-weary caterpillar. Every time we see a junkie/ hooker/ con artist/ deadbeat mother/ tragic heiress/ reluctant hero find that second chance through a retarded child/ wan martyr/ militant vegan/ really hot guy/ all-knowing butler, our eyes well up with tears and we dig for some more oil-glazed popcorn to comfort ourselves with the fact that life can indeed be beautiful.

And somewhere out there, another Porsche is bought, another 30 million-dollar mortgage paid and another kept woman is again very happy. Drama is one of the biggest commodities in the world – as desired and fought over as oil (think movie rights and the best weepy talent money can buy).

That’s why we all want some of it. Drama is no fun when it’s happening to you. Yes, it may have its perks: the "serenity now" candy, the warm embrace of swill, and maybe the limited attention self-absorbed friends may want to expend on you.

But it’s truly a fabulous thing when it’s someone else’s drama. As I’ve noticed with some characters in the pathos of our everyday lives, there are those I’d like to call the "we interlopers." Those who stick their noses in everything, from sly dirty looks allegedly offered by the poorer half of a couple to bedroom aerobics.

Once I was walking like a zombie, not quite heartbroken (as my ego will not allow me to admit it) but just concerned about how a romance can suddenly turn for the worse. Common pats on the back are: 1) Well, I just didn’t want to tell you, but... 2) I never liked him... 3) There was a time... 4) You could do better... 5) Let’s just get wasted.

However, things get more interesting – at least for the spectator, popcorn and martini in hand – when camps are divided. You see when you become a couple, part of the conjugal property is the friends. You see good times often create invisible umbilical cords to these people who, aside from your partner, you’ve grown madly in love with. You realize around the time the word "we" jumps out like toads in a rainstorm that you’re not only dating your partner but each other’s friends as well.

Think about those inebriated chats on life and how the HBO show Entourage is soooo not the Sex and the City for men (note: you must see it – order it on Amazon).

You all have dinner, go on holidays, and on those especially clandestine occasions drunkenly slip a sly one on one of your hot new amigos (not a general occurrence, although we are naturally pre-destined to be bastards). Anyway, you try to win each other over, and whatever intimate partnership you may have with your lover, you have a sort of everlasting courtship with the posse. (This does not apply if you’re the kind of b***h who hates his friends and blames them for encouraging him to cheat on you. Let me reverse that classic relationship line: it’s you, not them.)

Anyway, all is sweet till, of course, the s**t hits the fan. Now life is a wee bit easier when it’s a real breakup. Nada, nyet, Hiroshima, kaput. Then you can be sure that the backstabbing and the pitching of teepees in separate camps are a sure and permanent thing.

Things get really sticky when Bobby and Whitney decide to get back with each other. Then all backstabbers are metaphorically sent to the guillotine and exiled to B-list land. Of course there will be the Switzerlands – the smart ones who will go far in life. Diplomacy – not that Eva Braun twisted loyalty – is what will ensure you a happy and healthy life.

However, though the Switzerlands are surely the victors, they are unfortunately no fun, like Switzerland itself (my personal opinion). The backstabbers and the Eva Brauns are the best. I love the mad look they have in their eyes as they lap up the tragedy that has befallen their best friend.

Then, of course, the snubs are fun to watch, too. It was only days before that they were snapping camera-phone photos of each other and now they’re just snapping at each other. The cherry on top of this whole drama sundae is that they really take this tragedy like it was their own.

In a life where privacy is reduced to a PR ploy, you don’t need to be Lindsay Lohan to live in a fishbowl. You, too, can have that superstar life without the cash, unfortunately – all you need is a scandal or a tragic romance and everyone and their mother will stop, look, and listen. It’s quite fun for most, just as long as they’re not the star of this reality show.