Life goes on

You know, the older I get, the less amused I am by the whole celebrity thing. Especially at times like this.

Whitney Houston died. Hmm. Speculation as to why runs rampant . . . well, not really. Everything I've read seems to indicate that everyone writing about it has already seen an autopsy report. Pretty sure they haven't.

You know, I don't wanna piss on her grave. Why would I? I didn't know her. No idea who she really was. I liked a couple of her songs in the 80s. Enjoyed the movie The Bodyguard. Beyond that, she means nothing to me. I won't miss her, I'm not feeling any personal loss here.

But as I read around the blogosphere, I am amazed at how many people seem to think Houston was their best friend. Tributes to her amazing voice and talent and how a light has gone out, a candle has been extinguished. Blah, blah, blah.

Yeah, she had a nice voice, as do thousands, probably millions of unknown people in North America and around the world. But she had something they didn't. Celebrity. And, I'm sorry, in this day and age, celebrity does not necessarily mean that you've got more talent than the other thousand that didn't get the publicity.

Celebrity means you look good, or can be made to look good. Celebrity means you've got a PR machine working full time for you, to keep you in the public eye, to trumpet your success, your brilliance, your white teeth, your spectacular (and well paid for) fashion sense. Celebrity means, at its peak, the PR machine works to bury any negative, to retouch the photos, to burn the arrest report - unless of course the arrest report can work in your favour.

But celebrity is a cruel bitch. When your star starts to fade a little, the same mechanism that had you walking on water will do it's best to drown you in the same pool. The photos may still be retouched, but now they show you without makeup, at the bar a little bleary-eyed, wearing a few extra (normal) pounds and wearing an off-the-rack sweatsuit. (Gasp!)

And this crap is about as real as the original complimentary crap. Believe it or not, it's the same person.

But it's all headed downhill now. And, try as you might to stay with the in crowd, it just ain't happening. You just end up looking pathetic on Celebrity Apprentice with the other C-listers, desperately trying to hold on to an ounce of notability. 

The smarter ones, it seems, go underground for a while. Get out of the public eye. Head to rehab (the one without cameras).

And then, when you're all but forgotten, you go for the comeback. Maybe you can land a spot as a judge on one of those star-maker television shows. And here, you can help find the innocent, starry-eyed folks who are talented enough and, more importantly, good looking enough, to warrant a ride on the celebrity train. You can feed the grist mill that chewed you up and spit you out. You can get them started on their over-inflated egos, train them to believe the press releases and get them into the best restaurants and clubs. Cause that's where all the quality people are!

The circle of celebrity life.

Well, look at me. I'm doing the same thing as those other bloggers. Blathering on about something that I, honestly, know nothing about. I've never been a celebrity, never been anywhere near Hollywood. (New Orleans is about as close as I've been). And no one has EVER asked ME who I'm wearing.

But I guess I've watched the news, watched the movies, listened to the music and hey, as a stay-at-home Dad, I've read the headlines and seen the pictures at the grocery store check-out. In my more than 40 years on the planet, I've seen many come and go. Most fade away, and a few die by misadventure. The misadventure, it seems, gets the big headlines, warranted or not.

Whitney Houston is dead. Life goes on. And, give it a minute or two, a fresh new face will be on the scene with a voice like an angel, perfect teeth, perfect clothes, a perfect life. And then, give it a minute or two . . .