Faster than an instant message, www.Facebook.com has become the latest internet sensation. I didn’t know what Facebook.com was until I created an account at the urging of a co-worker. I didn’t even know I needed a social networking web site.
“You’ve got to try it,” said my co-worker. “Once you sign up you’ll be hooked.”
“What exactly is the site about?” I asked.
“Facebook puts you instantly in touch with everyone you’ve ever known,” she said.
“And that’s a good thing?” I said.
I signed up for my free account to see what all the hype was about. Facebook allows you to create an online profile, complete with your photo and much more information than you should ever divulge online. I created my page and waited to see what would happen next.
You need to enter your email address when you register. Facebook then takes your personal contact list and lets you know which people in your address book are members of Facebook. Chances are quite a few people on your list already have joined the site. If you add their name to your “friends” list, Facebook sends that person a message asking them to “approve” being added to your list, or the recipient can reject your request to befriend them. It’s like the grammar school playground all over again.
I added a few co-workers to my “friends” list. Thankfully they all accepted my invitation. Photos of their smiling faces appear at the bottom of my Facebook home page.
This is where it gets complicated. If I click on a “friend’s” photo, the link takes me to their page and shows me a list of their friends. I felt I was invading their privacy, but curiosity got the better of me and I wanted to see who knew whom, and who put whom on their list. The funny quips under the photos were clever and gave me an insight into their lives I didn’t really need to know.
I followed a link to my coworker’s page because Facebook told me we had friends in common. There were photos posted of “John” with his friend at a bar having a wild guys night out.
I saw “John” the next morning and asked him how his night out was. “John” was taken aback.
“How did you know I went out last night?” he asked.
“It’s all over Facebook. Photos and everything,” I said. I had officially become part of a new way to communicate.
The next time I logged on to Facebook.com, I was besieged with “friend” requests from people I had not heard from in quite some time. A couple of requests came from people I could barely remember even from their headshot photos. People from the neighborhood where I grew up were leaving messages on my page. Their old photos brought back many happy memories. Current photos of their families were equally interesting. There is also a discussion board for Facebook members who went to my grammar school. Names I recognized from long ago were posting snippets of their experiences at the school and sharing tales of teachers we had in common.
Facebook takes the antiquated America Online service one step further. If you were an AOL member, you could search for people you knew, but they had to be a member of AOL for you to contact them. Facebook’s information-grabbing tentacles connect you to anyone you know who has a computer. The sheer scope of its reach is overwhelming.
And now I’m collecting friends like Pokemon cards. I’m trying to be discretionary and only choose people I have a close bond with. Some people on Facebook are just trying to pump up their number of friend’s for sheer volume to show how popular they are. It’s interesting that in a society where people feel so disconnected from one another, Facebook is creating one huge connected community. Facebook lets the world see our smiling faces and read our happy little comments no matter what is really going on in our lives. Everything is beautiful in it’s own electronically distorted way.
If you decide to join, remember there are some unwritten rules about Facebook. Don’t type in your children’s names unless you are prepared for a glimpse into their private world. And don’t ever post a message on their home page in case their friends read it. It could cause extreme embarrassment in the social network circle.
For now, I’m happy being contacted by grammar school girlfriends and displaced co-workers. There are people on the site looking for long lost relatives. Businesses are creating pages for advertising purposes. The potential is unlimited.
The ubiquitous Facebook craze may not last forever. According to my children, now that the baby-boomers have infiltrated the site, it is no longer hip. The kids migrated to Facebook when MySpace.com became too mainstream. I guess youngsters are just going to have to accept us old folks as part of their community, or they will have to move on to the next big thing in computer social networking: see www.Twitter.com (which I am still trying to figure out).
Check out Facebook.com if you have internet access. You might be surprised at whom you find – or who finds you.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Death of the Daily Planet
by Clark Kent guest reporter
Newspapers across the country are closing their doors at an alarming rate. Today, the final edition of my own beloved Daily Planet has gone to press. For the past seventy years this Metropolis newspaper has informed and entertained us. Decreased circulation combined with an ever-expanding internet presence has forced the newspaper industry to adjust or die. And most newspapers are dying.
The Daily Planet strove to remain relevant in a world besieged by instant information outlets. Television, the web and even cell phone news services supply their audience with news as it happens. No matter how fast the Daily Planet could print a story, it always seemed a day behind.
Escalating paper and fuel prices as well as environmental concerns were also factors in the closing of this media landmark.
I noticed acceleration in the newspaper’s decline when my editor, Perry White, began outsourcing stories from a generic wire service. The newspaper saved money, but without any local stories its circulation began dropping rapidly. With sales dwindling at the newsstand, advertisers cancelled long-term contracts deeply cutting into revenue the newspaper needed to continue operating.
Several of our big name reporters left for other venues. Lois Lane jumped ship and is working for the Daily Bugle, where her column appears only online. The Daily Bugle is also in the midst of severe employee layoffs as well. Peter Parker, the famous local photographer, was in the Daily Planet's office last week trying to sell photos to the city desk but there was no money in the budget for freelancers. Our own senior reporter, Jimmy Olsen, took a buyout package last month. He now works at Home Depot in the paint department during the day. He works nights in the Stop & Shop deli to help make ends meet.
Most people do not realize how valuable newspapers are. A newspaper is much more than an overview of current events. A newspaper has a distinct voice. Newspapers offer points of view driven by the people who produce it. Newspapers are a tool for checking everything from the weather to movie reviews. If you want to buy a car or rent an apartment, all the information you need is in the palm of your hand in glorious black and white.
Sure you can find information on the web but you never know the source. The web offers many versions of the truth. Anything can be posted on the web by anybody. And everybody instantly believes it. No witnesses, no corroboration needed. The internet is the gospel our younger generation blindly follows.
Newspapers give people another side of the story. There is nowhere to turn for another opinion. Newspapers have been a key source of information for the general public since the revolutionary war. They are equally important to preserving our freedom today – Freedom from government control, freedom of expression, freedom of the press. If society lets these little freedoms slip away, soon there is no freedom left.
Please support your local newspaper any way you can. Write letters to the editor. Send in stories about events in your town. Advertise your local business. Discuss newspaper stories with your children.
The future is in your hands with this newspaper you are holding. Don’t let such a valuable resource become extinct. Don’t let newspapers become another casualty of the information superhighway. Unlike the web, newspapers make a commitment to verify the truth in what they print. For that reason alone, it is in our best interest to keep newspapers around as long as possible.
Take it from me, Clark Kent: observer, reporter, concerned citizen, freedom fighter. I am a big supporter of truth, justice and the American way. I want to preserve these beliefs for all people well into the future.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Clean Sweep
Cleaning house by Scott Mullowney
A new year has arrived. Not just another new year, but an extraordinary new year. An historical new year. What better time to clean house, start fresh, clear the air.
The beginning of the 2009 calendar is a great starting point. I have lots (and lots) of projects on the horizon. This year in a shocking departure from my usual schedule, I'm going to start my indoor projects in the winter and save my outdoor projects for the warmer weather. It sounds so simple.
“Simplify” is going to be my motto this year. I've got a major cleaning out mission ahead of me. Got junk? Oh, I've got junk all right. The good stuff is going on eBay. I should be able to make enough money for a new laptop computer. There will be enough items left over for a huge yard sale this spring.
The Salvation Army will be happy. I have several bags of almost new clothing that will never be worn again by anyone in this house. A growing teen-ager has a short window of opportunity when clothes will actually fit before styles change again.
My paper shredder is coming out of hibernation. If you're in the neighborhood and hear strange noises coming from my attic, it's not the roar of a mini-chainsaw. It's me shredding important papers I'll be looking for during tax time.
I’ll be trekking to the Got Books kiosk with the several boxes of books I've amassed over the last couple of years. Books have a way of being pulled into my gravitational field, and once in my orbit they are there forever. How can you throw away a book? At least I've found a solution to my mountains of magazines. Every month I fill the reading rack of the gym I go to with a stack of current periodicals. When I want to refer to an article I’ve read, I just have to hop on an exercise bike and start flipping pages.
The kitchen could use a clean sweep too. The pots-and-pan cabinet is full of things I'll never use. Why don't the stray lids ever fit the pots without tops? I wish I could throw everything away and start over. I always use the same three pots and two frying pans. If I get the nerve to toss everything else in the trash, next week I'll be looking for a double boiler or that hardly used muffin tin, guaranteed.
My kitchen junk drawer has spread like a virus to the top drawer of the buffet server in the dining room, and beyond into the drawers of my china cabinet. I'm going to have to find a new place to put all the duplicate school supplies that were already piling up there.
Next are the two downstairs closets. The one beside my front door is home to my family’s winter outerwear. I have a bin of mismatched gloves, scarves no one will wear and a top shelf of assorted hats for every occasion. There are enough winter coats to keep the entire Von Trapp family warm for years to come. Boots and duck shoes are jumbled on the floor. The top shelf contains obsolete telephone books and assorted rolls of wallpaper from the last time I updated the living room. Toss in the vacuum cleaner, the carpet steamer and a hundred feet of internet wire and you've got enough sorting out for an entire Saturday. Whoopee.
Around the corner, the hall closet is like an "As Seen On TV" storeroom. This small closet houses a George Foreman grill, a Presto griddle, a mini food processor and something called a Braun mini-pimer that was a housewarming gift from our realtor in 1990. I think I used it once to make a milkshake in the early nineties. On the next shelf is a bag of batteries, a bag of light bulbs, assorted extension cords and a couple of non-working flashlights. On the bottom shelf are assorted pet supplies and a bathroom rug collection.
On to my bedroom. The contents of my top bureau drawer could be emptied into a trash bag, put out to the curb on collection day, and never be missed. Not a bad idea. I’d have lots of room to accumulate new stuff to replace the cuff links I’ll never wear and the mismatched sock collection I’m holding onto in hopes of finding a matching collection stashed someplace else in the house. It’s happened before.
I know I’m not the only person using January 2009 as a starting point for change. Out with the old has never sounded so good. This time, I think it’s going to be for real.
A new year has arrived. Not just another new year, but an extraordinary new year. An historical new year. What better time to clean house, start fresh, clear the air.
The beginning of the 2009 calendar is a great starting point. I have lots (and lots) of projects on the horizon. This year in a shocking departure from my usual schedule, I'm going to start my indoor projects in the winter and save my outdoor projects for the warmer weather. It sounds so simple.
“Simplify” is going to be my motto this year. I've got a major cleaning out mission ahead of me. Got junk? Oh, I've got junk all right. The good stuff is going on eBay. I should be able to make enough money for a new laptop computer. There will be enough items left over for a huge yard sale this spring.
The Salvation Army will be happy. I have several bags of almost new clothing that will never be worn again by anyone in this house. A growing teen-ager has a short window of opportunity when clothes will actually fit before styles change again.
My paper shredder is coming out of hibernation. If you're in the neighborhood and hear strange noises coming from my attic, it's not the roar of a mini-chainsaw. It's me shredding important papers I'll be looking for during tax time.
I’ll be trekking to the Got Books kiosk with the several boxes of books I've amassed over the last couple of years. Books have a way of being pulled into my gravitational field, and once in my orbit they are there forever. How can you throw away a book? At least I've found a solution to my mountains of magazines. Every month I fill the reading rack of the gym I go to with a stack of current periodicals. When I want to refer to an article I’ve read, I just have to hop on an exercise bike and start flipping pages.
The kitchen could use a clean sweep too. The pots-and-pan cabinet is full of things I'll never use. Why don't the stray lids ever fit the pots without tops? I wish I could throw everything away and start over. I always use the same three pots and two frying pans. If I get the nerve to toss everything else in the trash, next week I'll be looking for a double boiler or that hardly used muffin tin, guaranteed.
My kitchen junk drawer has spread like a virus to the top drawer of the buffet server in the dining room, and beyond into the drawers of my china cabinet. I'm going to have to find a new place to put all the duplicate school supplies that were already piling up there.
Next are the two downstairs closets. The one beside my front door is home to my family’s winter outerwear. I have a bin of mismatched gloves, scarves no one will wear and a top shelf of assorted hats for every occasion. There are enough winter coats to keep the entire Von Trapp family warm for years to come. Boots and duck shoes are jumbled on the floor. The top shelf contains obsolete telephone books and assorted rolls of wallpaper from the last time I updated the living room. Toss in the vacuum cleaner, the carpet steamer and a hundred feet of internet wire and you've got enough sorting out for an entire Saturday. Whoopee.
Around the corner, the hall closet is like an "As Seen On TV" storeroom. This small closet houses a George Foreman grill, a Presto griddle, a mini food processor and something called a Braun mini-pimer that was a housewarming gift from our realtor in 1990. I think I used it once to make a milkshake in the early nineties. On the next shelf is a bag of batteries, a bag of light bulbs, assorted extension cords and a couple of non-working flashlights. On the bottom shelf are assorted pet supplies and a bathroom rug collection.
On to my bedroom. The contents of my top bureau drawer could be emptied into a trash bag, put out to the curb on collection day, and never be missed. Not a bad idea. I’d have lots of room to accumulate new stuff to replace the cuff links I’ll never wear and the mismatched sock collection I’m holding onto in hopes of finding a matching collection stashed someplace else in the house. It’s happened before.
I know I’m not the only person using January 2009 as a starting point for change. Out with the old has never sounded so good. This time, I think it’s going to be for real.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
New Year, Same Crap
I drove home in a snowstorm on New Years Eve. Some of my guests had already arrived. I had just enough time to shovel before I had to go pick up the chinese food. After I ate, I had to drive my son to his friends house for a sleepover. I came home, made a drink, watched the beginning of a couple of movies (Hamlet 2, Tin Man), then a couple of Three Stooges episodes before Dick Clark dropped the ball. Happy 2009. New Year's morning was not as restfull as I would have liked. More shoveling, pick up my son from his sleepover party, drive into Boston with my older son to pick up his bedroom set from his apartment and bring it home to Stoneham, watched some television, ate dinner, drove my older son and his girlfrined to the train station so they could go back into Boston, came home, went on the computer and now going to bed. Stop the world, I want to get off.
x-rays for x-mas
On Christmas day, my wife just put the delicious looking roast beef in the oven before
her crushing chest pains began. A half hour later we were in the
emergency room spending Christmas evening with the poor souls who had
to work on the holiday. You would think the place would be empty, but
quite the opposite. Sickness takes no time off around the holidays.
Luckily my wife's doctor was on duty at the hospital so we got to
confer with him on the cause of these reocurring dibilitating spasms
that have been happening to her since last spring. When the doctor
tells you your wife's illness is an enigma, it's never a good sign. He
is going to try some alternate treatments before resorting to
exploratory surgery since all the tests are coming back negative. I
called my son with cooking instructions over my cell phone so the
Christmas roast wouldn't burn while we were at the hospital. Hours
later, after an Ultrasound, an EKG, some X-rays and a shot of Demorol,
my wife was released. She spent the night sleeping while the boys and
I had a late night dinner. I poured an extra glass of wine for myself
hoping I wouldn't be heading back to the hospital later in the night.
Luckily, all is calm for the time being. I can't wait until the new year.
her crushing chest pains began. A half hour later we were in the
emergency room spending Christmas evening with the poor souls who had
to work on the holiday. You would think the place would be empty, but
quite the opposite. Sickness takes no time off around the holidays.
Luckily my wife's doctor was on duty at the hospital so we got to
confer with him on the cause of these reocurring dibilitating spasms
that have been happening to her since last spring. When the doctor
tells you your wife's illness is an enigma, it's never a good sign. He
is going to try some alternate treatments before resorting to
exploratory surgery since all the tests are coming back negative. I
called my son with cooking instructions over my cell phone so the
Christmas roast wouldn't burn while we were at the hospital. Hours
later, after an Ultrasound, an EKG, some X-rays and a shot of Demorol,
my wife was released. She spent the night sleeping while the boys and
I had a late night dinner. I poured an extra glass of wine for myself
hoping I wouldn't be heading back to the hospital later in the night.
Luckily, all is calm for the time being. I can't wait until the new year.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Best Christmas Ever
I miss the clanging of The Salvation Army bells on the street corners of downtown Boston. The bells are silent because someone complained about the noise. If there are gunshots on the same corner, nobody notices.
The person who fought to remove a Christmas Nativity display from a local town common has filed a petition to have candy canes removed from the town’s holiday decorations because of the candy’s religious overtones. Who knew?
Santa is under fire by a politically correct coalition who wants him to lose weight and go on a low carb diet to send a healthy message to the children. Another group wants to change Santa’s laugh from “Ho-Ho-Ho” to “Ha-Ha-Ha” because someone was offended by the word “Ho”.
My Christmas lights are in disarray. I couldn’t find last years storage boxes in the attic, so I had to improvise. Since I was pressed for time, my wife and son offered to help me decorate in the cold. Actually, my son stood there watching me while my wife proceeded to take down the lights I just strung up on the porch.
“Why are you taking down those lights?” I asked.
“You put them up in the wrong place,” she answered. I was smart enough not to argue.
I was waiting for a warm day before Christmas when I had nothing to do so I could redecorate the outside of the house when no one was around. This week’s foot-and-a-half of snow squashed that idea. The lights look fine to me now.
I’m looking forward to going out for a Christmas Eve dinner I can’t afford. “Order whatever you want,” I tell the kids. “Christmas comes but once a year.” And then I have to pay for it over the next 12 months. When a restaurant has no prices beside their lobster dishes on the menu, it’s too expensive for anyone to order. Last year I learned the hard way. Although the price of the lobster included a ringside seat to a fistfight at the next table in the dining room of the elegant restaurant we chose. Nothing says Christmas like a violent altercation by screaming members of a dysfunctional family. Tis the season after all.
Our plans may change this year. My youngest son is recovering from strep throat. I thought he was pretending to be sick so he could stay home from school. My older son is home recovering from back surgery, adding to the festivities. Another Xmas on Oxycontin for him this year. Stay away from my eggnog martinis.
The troubled economy adds another layer of gloom to the holidays this year. While Christmas shopping, I pass people on the street who look disheveled and out of work. No one looks happy, not even the well-to-do woman in the expensive red jacket carrying her Newbury Street bags full of gifts for herself as she checks in with her nanny on her cell phone. I sip my $4 Starbucks Espresso Truffle while trying to get that warm fuzzy holiday feeling, but the caffeine only gives me a headache and makes me hyper.
I was already out of time before the holiday season began. Still, I braved long lines to buy things for my wife and children. Hopefully they’ll like some of the things I bought or them. I’m trying to be practical this year. I’m giving my wife gifts she’ll use. Within reason. I learned my lesson the year I gave her a vacuum cleaner. I never went Christmas shopping at Sears again.
I am always grateful for any gifts I receive, even if they’re not what I wanted. I should be the easiest person on anybody’s list. I love homemade things. I love books and music. I’m beginning to wonder if my family knows me at all.
Christmas morning, my bizarre winter hay fever usually kicks in. Maybe I’m allergic to pine trees. I spend the morning sneezing as clear liquid pours from my nose. I use all three handkerchiefs I stuffed in my bathrobe pocket as we open our gifts. I make a pot of coffee and wish for something other than decaf, but that’s all we have in the cabinet since my wife’s mystery illness manifested itself in November. I suppose there are worse things than living without caffeine.
I notice how our Nativity set has grown smaller over the years. It’s no longer in the living room on prominent display. The hand-made stable my wife’s father built, along with the large ceramic figures her mother painted for us, are packed away in a dark corner of the attic. Maybe if I look hard enough, I’ll find the true meaning of Christmas up there too.
The person who fought to remove a Christmas Nativity display from a local town common has filed a petition to have candy canes removed from the town’s holiday decorations because of the candy’s religious overtones. Who knew?
Santa is under fire by a politically correct coalition who wants him to lose weight and go on a low carb diet to send a healthy message to the children. Another group wants to change Santa’s laugh from “Ho-Ho-Ho” to “Ha-Ha-Ha” because someone was offended by the word “Ho”.
My Christmas lights are in disarray. I couldn’t find last years storage boxes in the attic, so I had to improvise. Since I was pressed for time, my wife and son offered to help me decorate in the cold. Actually, my son stood there watching me while my wife proceeded to take down the lights I just strung up on the porch.
“Why are you taking down those lights?” I asked.
“You put them up in the wrong place,” she answered. I was smart enough not to argue.
I was waiting for a warm day before Christmas when I had nothing to do so I could redecorate the outside of the house when no one was around. This week’s foot-and-a-half of snow squashed that idea. The lights look fine to me now.
I’m looking forward to going out for a Christmas Eve dinner I can’t afford. “Order whatever you want,” I tell the kids. “Christmas comes but once a year.” And then I have to pay for it over the next 12 months. When a restaurant has no prices beside their lobster dishes on the menu, it’s too expensive for anyone to order. Last year I learned the hard way. Although the price of the lobster included a ringside seat to a fistfight at the next table in the dining room of the elegant restaurant we chose. Nothing says Christmas like a violent altercation by screaming members of a dysfunctional family. Tis the season after all.
Our plans may change this year. My youngest son is recovering from strep throat. I thought he was pretending to be sick so he could stay home from school. My older son is home recovering from back surgery, adding to the festivities. Another Xmas on Oxycontin for him this year. Stay away from my eggnog martinis.
The troubled economy adds another layer of gloom to the holidays this year. While Christmas shopping, I pass people on the street who look disheveled and out of work. No one looks happy, not even the well-to-do woman in the expensive red jacket carrying her Newbury Street bags full of gifts for herself as she checks in with her nanny on her cell phone. I sip my $4 Starbucks Espresso Truffle while trying to get that warm fuzzy holiday feeling, but the caffeine only gives me a headache and makes me hyper.
I was already out of time before the holiday season began. Still, I braved long lines to buy things for my wife and children. Hopefully they’ll like some of the things I bought or them. I’m trying to be practical this year. I’m giving my wife gifts she’ll use. Within reason. I learned my lesson the year I gave her a vacuum cleaner. I never went Christmas shopping at Sears again.
I am always grateful for any gifts I receive, even if they’re not what I wanted. I should be the easiest person on anybody’s list. I love homemade things. I love books and music. I’m beginning to wonder if my family knows me at all.
Christmas morning, my bizarre winter hay fever usually kicks in. Maybe I’m allergic to pine trees. I spend the morning sneezing as clear liquid pours from my nose. I use all three handkerchiefs I stuffed in my bathrobe pocket as we open our gifts. I make a pot of coffee and wish for something other than decaf, but that’s all we have in the cabinet since my wife’s mystery illness manifested itself in November. I suppose there are worse things than living without caffeine.
I notice how our Nativity set has grown smaller over the years. It’s no longer in the living room on prominent display. The hand-made stable my wife’s father built, along with the large ceramic figures her mother painted for us, are packed away in a dark corner of the attic. Maybe if I look hard enough, I’ll find the true meaning of Christmas up there too.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Circus of the Stars
The media loves to turn a person into an overnight celebrity. Rags-to-riches stories are the oldest in Hollywood. However, the fickle media only allows a person to stay on top for so long before tearing them down by focusing on every misstep and magnifying one's indiscretions in the public arena. And like the arena of the Coliseum in ancient Rome, the media loves to tear you apart as punishment for daring to achieve a high level of fame. Fame is a vicious circle, like a snake eating its own tail.
Britney Spears' journey from the Mouseketeers to the mental ward is one of these fascinating tales. Even though I am not in the desired demographic, I was compelled to watch last week's documentary on MTV entitled Britney Spears: For the Record. This film detailed the past year in the young singer’s turbulent life in her own words. I was curious to hear her side of her recent bizarre behavior chronicled on entertainment television.
When a reporter asked her if she thought her life was "weird", she paused while fast paced clips of her bizarre world flashed on the television screen.
"Weird?" she said, seemingly confused by the question. "No, I don't think my life is weird. It's all I know. To me, my life is normal."
I thought that was a very telling moment in the documentary because it revealed how far outside the norm Britney lives.
The documentary didn't focus on her much-publicized breakdown, but rather on the past year in which Britney picked up the pieces and put her life in order. Britney's public meltdown was interesting to watch at first, but it quickly escalated out-of-control. Why didn’t anyone step in to help her stay out of harm’s way?
Despondent after her divorce from the father of her children, Britney's fiery downspin was fueled by the paparazzi's insatiable appetite for destruction. Every miserable moment of Britney's descent into madness was captured on film and broadcast for us to experience on a nightly basis. From running around in multi-colored wigs to speaking in a faux-English accent, it all seemed like harmless fun at first. Shaving her head in the window of a beauty salon and beating on a car with an umbrella seemed to indicate Britney crossed the line from prankster to just plain pathetic.
Near the end of her ordeal, I saw a photo in a magazine of Britney sitting on a curb at night, huddled with a little dog in her arms, alone under a streetlight. A reporter accidentally stumbled upon her and asked what she was doing there. She looked at him with tears in her eyes and said, "Just sitting."
Britney's breakdown culminated with the eleven o'clock news broadcast of her being transported by ambulance to a psychiatric hospital. The result was a judge stepping in to grant custody of her children to her ex-husband (who is no shining example of parenthood, either). Britney's father was named conservator of her estate and became her legal caretaker. He was portrayed as a nice guy in the documentary, lovingly making his daughter breakfast in the morning and overseeing all of her upcoming public appearances. He seemed to have Britney's best interest at heart.
As a publicity tool, the Britney Spears documentary was a marketing masterpiece. It coincided with Tuesday’s release of her newest CD entitled "Circus" which is poised to win the coveted Number One slot on Billboard magazine’s music chart. Good luck to her. It's only a matter of time before the media turns on her again. Next time, the media may not be as forgiving. Usually you only get one show biz comeback, although there are rare exceptions.
So let's hope Britney enjoys her rise from the gutter into the celebrity stratosphere. She's more famous for her life off stage than on. Her vocal ability is questionable because her albums, like her life, are heavily produced by others. Her electronically embellished vocals only hint at any talent lurking in the mix.
Britney claims her only freedom is within a 4 ft. by 4 ft. area inside the protective barrier of her security team. Ten years from now, maybe no one will be talking about this former Mouseketeer from Louisiana. Maybe she'll be able to blend in with the crowd without causing a near riot when she walks down the street. Despite her protests, she may not be ready for the real world.
Watching her train wreck of a life unfold before us has become a spectator sport and we're watching every brutal moment of it. At some point, however, it ceases to hold our interest and makes us wonder why we ever watched in the first place. When the line between entertainment and humiliation becomes blurred, it's time to tune the media out and turn the television off.
Britney Spears' journey from the Mouseketeers to the mental ward is one of these fascinating tales. Even though I am not in the desired demographic, I was compelled to watch last week's documentary on MTV entitled Britney Spears: For the Record. This film detailed the past year in the young singer’s turbulent life in her own words. I was curious to hear her side of her recent bizarre behavior chronicled on entertainment television.
When a reporter asked her if she thought her life was "weird", she paused while fast paced clips of her bizarre world flashed on the television screen.
"Weird?" she said, seemingly confused by the question. "No, I don't think my life is weird. It's all I know. To me, my life is normal."
I thought that was a very telling moment in the documentary because it revealed how far outside the norm Britney lives.
The documentary didn't focus on her much-publicized breakdown, but rather on the past year in which Britney picked up the pieces and put her life in order. Britney's public meltdown was interesting to watch at first, but it quickly escalated out-of-control. Why didn’t anyone step in to help her stay out of harm’s way?
Despondent after her divorce from the father of her children, Britney's fiery downspin was fueled by the paparazzi's insatiable appetite for destruction. Every miserable moment of Britney's descent into madness was captured on film and broadcast for us to experience on a nightly basis. From running around in multi-colored wigs to speaking in a faux-English accent, it all seemed like harmless fun at first. Shaving her head in the window of a beauty salon and beating on a car with an umbrella seemed to indicate Britney crossed the line from prankster to just plain pathetic.
Near the end of her ordeal, I saw a photo in a magazine of Britney sitting on a curb at night, huddled with a little dog in her arms, alone under a streetlight. A reporter accidentally stumbled upon her and asked what she was doing there. She looked at him with tears in her eyes and said, "Just sitting."
Britney's breakdown culminated with the eleven o'clock news broadcast of her being transported by ambulance to a psychiatric hospital. The result was a judge stepping in to grant custody of her children to her ex-husband (who is no shining example of parenthood, either). Britney's father was named conservator of her estate and became her legal caretaker. He was portrayed as a nice guy in the documentary, lovingly making his daughter breakfast in the morning and overseeing all of her upcoming public appearances. He seemed to have Britney's best interest at heart.
As a publicity tool, the Britney Spears documentary was a marketing masterpiece. It coincided with Tuesday’s release of her newest CD entitled "Circus" which is poised to win the coveted Number One slot on Billboard magazine’s music chart. Good luck to her. It's only a matter of time before the media turns on her again. Next time, the media may not be as forgiving. Usually you only get one show biz comeback, although there are rare exceptions.
So let's hope Britney enjoys her rise from the gutter into the celebrity stratosphere. She's more famous for her life off stage than on. Her vocal ability is questionable because her albums, like her life, are heavily produced by others. Her electronically embellished vocals only hint at any talent lurking in the mix.
Britney claims her only freedom is within a 4 ft. by 4 ft. area inside the protective barrier of her security team. Ten years from now, maybe no one will be talking about this former Mouseketeer from Louisiana. Maybe she'll be able to blend in with the crowd without causing a near riot when she walks down the street. Despite her protests, she may not be ready for the real world.
Watching her train wreck of a life unfold before us has become a spectator sport and we're watching every brutal moment of it. At some point, however, it ceases to hold our interest and makes us wonder why we ever watched in the first place. When the line between entertainment and humiliation becomes blurred, it's time to tune the media out and turn the television off.
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