Unhappy is the land that is in need of heroes.
--Bertolt Brecht

Did you hear that Ben Affleck, the lately hitless hunk from Good Will Hunting married Jennifer Garner, kick-ass hottie of Alias fame—after he impregnated her? Of course you did! Even if you had no desire to learn about the shotgun wedding of these Hollywood sub-stars, there was no escape. The mediocre events of their lives were injected into your life, with or without your consent.

Often, when the vapid fascination with celebrities and celebrity culture angers us, people say “just ignore it.” This might work in some cases: we can ignore creationists, we can ignore, up to a point, Texas Republicans. We, as a nation, regularly ignore even big things, like Venezuela. But the modern problem of celebrity is that it cannot be ignored.

In the United States, celebrity is impressed upon us to the point that we’d be shocked and lost if it took a week’s vacation. Walk down any city street: billboards and wall posters leap out like attackers. The same ones on different streets. The billboard for Ocean’s Twelve, a celebrity jack-off if there ever was one, was so large it seemed mocking. The actors' familiar faces peered down upon us as if to say, “No, you don’t like your life. Screenings at 5, 7, 9 and 11.” If Celebrity were a religion or a political party at least we’d have some protection under the Constitution. Yes, Jane, please return your copy of Us Magazine to your locker. Now.

Criticism of celebrity culture and the national obsession with it isn’t new. America has drooled over this sloppy trough of pig-porn for decades. And this essay isn’t a screed against imagination or desire: if biographies of stars motivate you, if gaping at bloated details of celeb sex lives, marriages, and clothing pleases you, by all means watch on.

But don’t try to claim that there is worth in soaking up celebrity culture, that it’s harmless fun or just something to fill your “downtime.” These excuses won’t save you from our judgment, which is this: you are a fucking moron, growing dumber, less interesting and more atrophied with each celeb show you watch, each article you read about Madonna’s wardrobe or Nick and Jessica’s catfights. Yes, we also include here every single Reality Show for all the obvious reasons, the main one being the fact that they are little more than celebrity factories (recipe: take a few ordinary people, make them do a few unusual things, and bam, instant robo-celebrity).

Celebrity addiction cannot simply be considered “bad taste” and brushed off with a wave of the hand and a vague excuse about freedom of choice. It is a cult, a religion. It is seductive, draining and overwhelming. The celeb realm is like a vast and complicated priesthood that ministers according to tenets of money and bling.

In the face of this ridiculous plague, we find ourselves siding—reluctantly—with certain conservatives who argue that celebrity and media have gone too far, invading our privacy, debasing our thought and leaving no room to turn away—unless you’re rich enough to buy a ranch in Montana and move your four kids, Dakota, Skyler, Apple and Dakota, out to the country where they can’t be reached by any media. This may be culture, but it’s 100 percent top-down, non-participatory and corporate. American culture is alive and well—there’s no reason to issue absurd calls of decay and sickness—but it has nothing to do with celebrities or the gross industries they keep afloat.

Escape is not an option for most of us. We may shut off the TV in hopes of celeb-free moments. But TV is not the only outlet for this desiccating stuff. Billboards, bus-borne ads, spam, Web pop-ups, all of it feeds the insatiable appetite for celeb worship. Like the blob, it will find a crack in the floor and let itself in. Just the other day we were flipping channels while waiting for a delivery. Ten stations—ten in a row—blared celebrity reality TV, interviews, gossip about the new Bennifer and their love child, fashion critiques, tours of celeb homes. Left on their own, or even properly parented, children have little option but to grow up thinking fame is the “normal state of things,” to quote one of Inversion’s contributors.

But it isn’t. And it’s boring.

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