OK, maybe I’m being a bit harsh. But ask yourself this: What secret, or not so secret, program do you religiously watch and/or completely “understand”? Brett Michaels and Rock of Love? That never-ending drama Lost, which plays off of Survivor, which plays off the Tom Hanks movie Cast Away? American Idol, where regular people are either ridiculed or unfairly put on a pedestal? I know, it must be Dancing with the Stars, an arena where the Hollywood down-and-out can rise again.

You like feeling close to those Hollywood Freaks. They’re part of your family now. You share memories with your real life family and friends about this glamorous extended family. How many of you talk about Cosmo Kramer as if he’s some wacky uncle? You recall vividly how he use to come stumbling into Jerry Seinfeld’s apartment door, the strange curly pomp of hair extending skyward. To avoid awkward silences with co-workers or strangers you talk about last night’s episode of Gray’s Anatomy. Everywhere you turn people whisper about the dress Scarlett Johansen wore at the Oscars or what movie Johnny Depp will do next – oh, he’s so wacky and phenomenal it has to be interesting.

It’s more like an alien ship shows up, you’re beamed aboard for a few hours, and when you plummet back to Earth your brain is numb and filled with blank information.

Am I exaggerating? Am I? Even if I am just a little bit, even if you don’t buy what I’m telling you right now, even if you think I’m blowing it all out of proportion, know that the portion that’s left, that portion of Hollywood bullshit that seeps into your life, is still enough to suck out a piece of your soul. Your mind goes on vacation and enters this juiced-up world of exciting people doing extracurricular activities. The word vicarious doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s more like an alien ship shows up, you’re beamed aboard for a few hours, and when you plummet back to Earth your brain is numb and filled with blank information. You’ve lost time that you’ll never get back. Now imagine doing that every day for your whole life. Now imagine these aliens are the Hollywood Freaks you openly or quietly revere.

To answer my above question as to why I have this wealth of pointless information about truly unimportant people stored in my brain, I’ll say this: The media wants you to crave more than what you have, and Americans have a weakness for valuing things without value. If a person is newsworthy we just assume they must have value. They interest us because they are being talked about. There’s really not much internal investigation invested into it. People rarely get so fed up with crappy TV programs or sensational headline media outlets that they actually cancel their cable or hold the media more accountable for what they print.

I’m a curious person who likes to read anything I can get my hands on, and I’ve paid for this trait. The Hollywood Freaks have weaseled their way into my life. Inside the mind of a person who doesn’t value them, who doesn’t care what happens to them, and who wishes they’d all grab their narcissism and jump on a Russian rocket to Mars. Do me, and yourself, and your children, and your friends, a giant favor. Take your TV outside. Take a metal baseball bat and destroy that TV. Saturate your local newspaper with negative letters if they keep reporting about Snoop Dog’s latest Marijuana bust or the next O.J. Simpson trial. Do it until they hate you. Champion independent movies and protest Hollywood blockbusters with picket signs and bullhorn-led chants. And if you are lucky enough to spot a Hollywood Freak in person, get right in their face and start booing in a loud, obnoxious voice until they either leave or call the cops. Because, for Christ’s sake, these motherfuckers need to know at least one person sees how downright shitty they truly are.

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