Vanity Fairhas chosen not to heed my and many of its readers’ admonitionsregarding their continuing epic articles about such worthy subjects as Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan, and this month, scraping the bottom of the barrel, Nicole Richie.VF seems to have gotten confused between high class (what their focussupposedly is on), and money. The two do not ipso facto go hand inhand. Why do I read these articles about vapid spoiled celebritiesbetween others on the Dubai Ports deal, New Orleans, Dick Cheney’s corruption, and Anderson Cooper? Because I like to get outraged? Because it’s like a car crash, and I can’t look away? Because I love theatre of the absurd? All of the above?

The Richie article raised my heckles the most out of the triad oftrash, as it was also extremely schizophrenic, attempting to highlighther freakishly bony body and dangerous anorexiawhile simultaneously singing her praises as a flawless goddess and iconof fashion, running a series of provocative and glamorous photosof her with the piece. WTF? As I pitied the authors of the Hilton andLohan pieces, I similarly pity the poor writer who has had to cobbletogether an intelligent sounding article for Vanity Fair’s highbrowreadership about a woman who is best known for sticking her hand up acow’s rectum and propositioning an 11 year-old boy.

I do not, on the other hand, pity the ghostwriter for Richie’s novel. Anyone who would aidin the illusion that this chicklet has the wherewithal to pen ashopping list, never mind a whole novel, isn’t going to garner muchrespect from me in a literary environment already rife with whispers atthe moment. I have seen and heard Nicole Richie talk on T.V. Shedoesn’t have an education past high school, if that. You want me tobelieve that she wrote that someonehad a “somnambulant quality, half Stepford, half Valium...Thedial tone had more personality” (excerpt quoted in the VF article)? Two words: Hell no. Hell no doesNicole Ritchie use words like “somnambulant” or make reference toThe Stepford Wives, much less drop snarky witticisms, despite her absurd claimsthat she wrote it herself. I’m calling this emperor ghostwritten.

In another arena where the emperor literally has no clothes, I amwatching with rolled eyes the mainstreaming of the porn industry. Sincewhen didporn culture become the status quo? Since when did the sexualliberation of women mean them turning into Jenna Jameson? The totalnormalcy of “regular” women now takingstripping as an exercise class ("stripaerobics"), having breast implants, and installingpoles in their bedrooms really bothers me. Would men be doing these things? It’s as though women up theante every year in this stampede toward their own totalobjectification. And God forbid she doesn’t look like Demi Moorein herlate forties. The sex industry has become dinner table conversation,slipped in between "the plumber fixed that pipe" and "we're all out ofmilk". All of hipsterville is munching thoughtfully on horsd’oeuvres as they nonchalantly discuss Allan MacDonell’s Prisoner ofX. My documentary film teacher from SFSU, Caveh Zahedi, seems to bedoing well with his “I Am A Sex Addict”(which I have not yet seen). My friend recountsconversations she has with her friend, who nonchalantly tells her abouthis days at “the office”, shooting all kinds hardcore porn, much to herdiscomfort. His co-pornographers think nothing of listing that as theirprofession in their ho-hum personals ads. “36 year old seeks soulmatefor long walks on the beach, quiet nights in, candle-lit dinners. I ama mature, intelligent hard-core pornographer. No smokers, please!” It’sall come out of the closet, and the more bored you can sound whilediscussing it, the cooler and more "liberated" you are, I guess. But isit liberation?

Now, I am by no means a prude. I don't have any problem with thesethings on an individual basis, and that's not my bone (no pun) to pick. I justwonder when this formerly kinky,niche culture, became not only an indicator of one’s hipness, but nowtotally normalized as PTA moms try to squeeze in the pole-dancing between errands. Are there no kinks or taboosleft? When thisbecomes part of the mainstream culture, are we expected to look like orbehave like porn stars? Is that reality? Are women really enjoyingthemselves with all of this, designed to titillate men who have beenfedon increasingly unrealistic images of women in porn? And if this is nowthe norm, what’s next, and will it kill women as they struggle to keepup? To quote Maureen Dowd in“Are Men Necessary?”, “If Gloria Steinem had had a crystal ball andflashed forward to a 2005 filled with catfights and women scheming totrap men, snag the coveted honorific “Mrs.”, get cosmetic procedures tolook like Playmate bombsells and dress, as Dave Chappelle says, like‘whores’, would the sister have even bothered to lead the bonfire ofthe bras?”

I feel as though our culture has spun completely out of control in amisguided pilgrimage to pray at the feet of false gods. People withoutsubstance or talents to offer the world are revered. Nearlyunobtainable qualities are held out before us like mirages: anorexicsor massive breasts that stand eternally firm become fashion icons andsexual ideals. “Reality” shows are scripted and conduct castingsessions. Book deals materialize for memoirs that are lies, plagiarizednovels, and ghostwriters. It’s a world of video games, advertizing, andpolitical card tricks. Little substance. But I am afraid thatthese days, the cry of “the emperor has no clothes!” would barely turn a head.Maybe everyone already knows he’s in his birthday suit, and they don't really care.

 

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