indefinite articles

Dear Perez Hilton,

When we first met, I was in a dark stage of my life. I spent a lot of time watching American Idol on YouTube, read Us Weekly, and somehow managed to keep my nascent pop-trash flame alive long enough to stumble onto your website. The Sangina tidal wave, the Britney head-shave, the Brangelina babies, you were on the front lines, drawing MS paint fluids on celebrities’ faces. And suddenly, by your own proclamation, you were a celebrity, too. Now we see you on VH1 (on those rare moments when we couldn’t be bothered to change the channel away from VH1), read about you in Newsweek, watch you jet-set around the world to shower your meta-celebrity on unsuspecting victims around the world.

So now, I’m recovered. I don’t need you anymore, because I don’t actually give a shit about celebrities, which is the way God intended it. Who exactly is it that needs you? Your fickle whim may help dictate which pop tart is flavor of the month, but what do you do, exactly? Well, I know what you do now, but what did you do before everyone else decided you were famous? And why you, Perez, to celebrate celebrity? You are the very emblem of our generation - perched, laptop in hand on your Queen of All Media throne, bringing your rapier sass to bear on all tips and tidbits brought your way.

What makes you so different from me? Is it because I don’t have your deep knowledge of celebrity name portmanteaus and Talk Soup neologisms? Is it that I don’t have any inside connections in the amateur paparazzi? Or is it that I’m just not invested in being professionally mean? All of the above, clearly, but why you? How did you pull yourself up by your bootstraps and sit so obstinately in front of the spotlight? I don’t know, but this is what the 21st century thesis is made of. You want to be the darling of the celebrities, but you may end up being the guinea pig of the academics. In an age where every move is archived for all eternity, the deconstruction of your ascent is imminent.

So if you can’t tell me how you got where you are, you can at least tell me why. You are one eccentric dude. You live in LA with your labradoodle, in a nest adorned with portraits of…you. You have a not-so-ironic love affair with yourself, but when you throw yourself a birthday party and your celeb pals show up, is it because they love you, too? Or deep down, do you think maybe they’re just using you? And what about relationships? Do you have a boyfriend? Could you? Is there room in your bedazzled little pink heart for anyone other than yourself?

Perez, have you ever seen Garfield Minus Garfield? It’s a harrowing portrait of Jon Arbuckle, a lonely, neurotic homebody. I think it could be a valuable window into your own life. Here you are, a lonely, overweight, rainbow-haired internet addict, in a home that’s a shrine to your fabulousness. Without the internet there to make you infamous, what sort of sad life would you lead? Only you can know how horrifically sad you are.

Lucky for you, I have some constructive advice. Number one: bake a cake. There is nothing more good and wholesome in the world than baking a cake. Perez. Listen to me. Bake a fucking cake. Number two: write about somebody who isn’t a celebrity. Remember that even if you’re not on television, you still have a personality. Frightening, but true. Number three: do NOT put portraits of yourself in your room. That shit is terrifying. Just follow these three easy steps, and everything else will become clear. You’ll realize that the best cake in the world isn’t baked by Rachel Ray, it’s baked by somebody with a giant ass who really likes cake, and doesn’t care if they’re on TV. After learning what normal people are like, maybe you’ll think twice about the wisdom of calling somebody slutty as they visit grandma’s grave. Now it won’t happen tomorrow, but I promise you, if you follow these simple steps, you, too may have friends. It’s nice. You’ll like it.

Smooches,
Alex Storer
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