Do not disturb

As the world changes, so do we. In the old days, pure talent would get you anywhere. Then it was encumbered by whom you chose to be intimate with or – better – who you married. Then those flash-in-the-pan shooting stars who made their 15 minutes of fame with some scandal or simply by stepping out with the right or wrong man. Today, it’s pretty base.

Last year, people became household names around the world by flashing their unmentionables at red carpet parties or, if they really worked hard at it, having a sex scandal that would have people caring for five minutes. And that, my dear, was so five minutes ago.

Like daisies, sex has become boring and predictable. The new way to be famous is to air your dirty laundry in public, skid-marked undies and all. Before someone else does. Justin Timberlake recently said that he takes drugs, lots of them, in private. This explains Cameron’s dirty little meth-head pockmarked face, perhaps. He demurs that he makes sure not to do it when there are cameras around. How considerate. Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas admitted via Dlisted.com that, instead of having an eating disorder (a trendy confession that could get any talentless starlet – not you Fergie, you have talent – some pages in Vanity Fair. Yes, you, Nicole Richie), she really was quite the chemist under the sink. This explains the Elizabethan amounts of makeup she put on her mug – Cameron, hint, hint. Even Oscar winners are not immune to this trendy new fame accelerator; Hilary Swank outed welfare-living hubby Chad Lowe in Vanity Fair for his drug use. People bashed her for being tasteless; in hindsight, she probably saw what it did for Kate Moss and hoped this would give her gopher ex-hubby an edge in his career, so she wouldn’t have to pay him alimony. As for Kate, she really is quite the trendsetter, even if she didn’t mean it; she paved the way for overpaid junkies to ’fess up with their habits like it was a sunny childhood memory.

After she got caught, she came back making double of what she made when her drug use was just a mere speculation. Come to think of it, that’s Whitney Houston’s comeback move, but that didn’t pan out quite so well.

I read tabloids voraciously. Mostly to see that Jake Gyllenhaal remains single and I can fantasize about him without any intrusion from Kirsten Dunst. However, this streak of carefree "I’m-a-meth-head-millionaire-junkie-please-buy-my-album-so-I-can-buy-more-cough-syrup" is disturbing me. When Justin said it so nonchalantly, like it was chewing gum or something, it was kinda desperate. "Sexy Back" is a great album but somehow with that pizzicato now in play in our subconscious (or whatever-he-said-he-inhaled, it-could-be-Vicks-for-all-we-know) with his pasty pockmarked skin, he’s the new Tommy Lee/Pete Doherty wannabe. Maybe he and Britney should save each other. I mean he must really be that serious to stomp out his Mouseketeer past.

Anyway, these tacky admissions for the sake of some column inches are quite disturbing. What will they do next? Admit to bestiality? I’m scared. It’s one thing if they feel repentant about it, not hawk it like it’s a new flavor of Gatorade.

In Hollywood, there used to be spin doctors to turn any unsavory situation into a palatable one, or conveniently blame someone else. Today, there are spin doctors who make any unsavory situation, like being a crackhead, seem cool. I, for one, am not judgmental, but sometimes, maybe you should keep those skeletons in your closet locked up. It’s like Paris Hilton flashing her crotch; many men wonder about it, but when it’s out there, it’s gross.

Anyway, achieving the price of fame is elusive, and in a generation where people are famous for being famous, getting it is an abstract art. Next time, if you want to look edgy, get a haircut.