No Pictures, Please

Given the choice of fame or fortune, I'll take fortune; at least you can trade it for stuff you want or give it away to charity. But fame does nothing except bare your soul to the world and shine a hideous light on your most private moments. Despite having neither fame nor fortune, I am constantly forced to suffer people with both, and it's getting old. Suddenly--after winning the lottery or killing your child or writing a smash hit or marrying a rock star or running for office-- your beach body shows up in the tabloids and your air-brushed face graces magazine covers. But stumble just once and soon enough those YouTube videos broadcast your ignorance across the globe, while TV talk-show hosts spread lies and innuendo and comedians mine your cellulite, under-eye pouches, saggy boobs, paunchy middle, lost love, bitter divorce, plastic surgery and playful horsing around with underage boys, should your tastes run to that sort of thing, for their Vegas stand-up routines.

Last night I was home enjoying myself until I caught a fleeting glimpse of the once-vibrant Arizona congresswoman Gabrielle "Gabby" Giffords on television. Surrounded by nurses in a hospital setting, she sang "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" in the thin, wobbly  voice of a child. Almost bald with just a few tufts at the top, she looked like a newly-hatched baby bird and seemed sort of retarded, excuse my French. In reality, she looked like someone who had been shot in the head almost a year ago and is slowly making her way back, but she is clearly not back and seemed pathetic. Seeing that one minute of footage blew the rest of my evening. I wondered who decided we all needed to see that. Why is everything our business? Does seeing another person's private hell really help the rest of us? Lately, journalists rarely dispense information we need to know in order to survive but instead focus on everyone's dirty little secrets, as if we care! I must say in no uncertain terms: I wouldn't give a hoot if the entire football team at Penn State were fooling around with every one of the Boy Scouts of America. I would care if my own son were a Boy Scout or a ball player at Penn State, and I'd hope to be informed by the proper authorities at either institution. Otherwise, Anderson Cooper and his ilk should just shut up about it!

Long ago my friend Nancy F. made me promise that if she died before me I would get to the funeral home early enough to make sure her bangs were pulled down before the viewing; she worried her forehead was too small. I argued that in death nobody cares how big your forehead is, but she continued to beg and I naturally promised. In that same vein, I ask my loved ones to never broadcast me learning how to sing, if and when I suffer a head injury, and if they insist, to please choose a different song.