We've got this habit. When we get up in the morning, we watch television with our toast or Cheerios--Morning Joe every day. We like the banter and chat, and Scarborough is a kick, stubbornly conservative yet a ready wit and wonderfully capable of high spirits and smiles.
But somewhere around ten-to-eight, our time, we'll click over to Fox or CNN or the Weather Channel, because right before the curtains, Morning Joe does it daily penance to ravishing world of celebrities.
Pardon me while I pull on my flat-brimmed Puritan fedora, but I think we could all do with a little less celebrity worship. Hence, my joy this morning when reading that celebrity magazines aren't doing well, are in danger of dying actually, and scrambling to stay alive, cutting staff and content. Don't you just love recessions?
An aunt of mine--not a smoker or a drinker--used to bargain with God: "please, Lord, grant me this one request, and I promise--I swear--I'll give up the magazines," she'd plead. A couple weeks later at a weak moment, she'd grab one from the grocery store counter and fall right back into the floodlit pit. Vacations were a horror because all bets were off; out of town, she splurged with Hollywood Reporters. It wasn't pretty.
Madonna passes gas and it's flashing red-light stuff on Drudge. Huff Post even has a space for celebrity skin. Kristie Allie gained 83 pounds! Beyonce, Rhianna, Justin, and Victoria--who cares?
Here's the news: those trashy, homage-to-Babylon mags aren't moving anymore. There's hope for the American way.
It just would have been nice if I'd have made 'em before they go.