The dark rise of celebirty culture

I wrote this for my Leaving Cert Mock/Pre exam. Enjoy!



I woke a few mornings ago to find my social networking sites a-flutter. Torrents of Tweets and posts were sending cyberspace into a frenzy, as well as my phone. What could warrant such a response? I wondered. An end to war? A cure for cancer?

The headlines read:

"KIMYE'S BABY JOY"

If you have no idea what/who Kimye is, you are one of a lucky few. 'Kimye' are composed of Kim Kardashian - American 'socialite', 'actress' 'designer' and sex-tape star - and Kanye West - rapper and occasionally, Taylor Swift's award speech interrupter. The white-trash equivalent of Brangelina, they are Hollywood's most prolific power couple today.

And now, they have managed to successfully reproduce. How thrilling.

How did it come to this, in which, globally, people are celebrating that two run-of-the-mill people are expecting a child/ Since when is this more important that current affairs?

This shows exactly, the rapid, sadistic rise of celebrity culture - officially diagnosed as 'the Kim Kardashian effect'.

Stars without merit are beginning to have a greater influence in modern society. Celebrities dictate how we look, dress, eat, exercise and think. We are more exposed to Hollywood indoctrination than ever before. Products are bought for the face on the box - what else can you attribute to Jennifer Lopez having 12 different perfumes? Not her keen sense of smell, that's for sure.

Celebrities hold power reminiscent of Fascist dictators. We are bombarded with highly sexualised images of D-list celebrities daily, accompanying mundane stories such as, "How My New Puppy Is Changing My Life",  and "Being Filthy Rich Has It's Challenges, I Swear". In a recent straw poll of people agd between 18 and 30 years of age, a mere 10% could identify Nelson Mandela from a photograph. Surprisingly, (or perhaps unsurprisingly), 85% of the group could recognise Simon Cowell. If the children are our future, should I be worried?

So where does that leave us? Just how detrimental is 'the Kim Kardashian effect'?

For starts, we are significantly less intelligent. Recent studies from Cambridge University have show that a lowly 8% of your brain is engaged while watching reality TV. Imagine the potential of that 8%! It could be writing a novella, solving a sudoku puzzle or playing a game of chess, as opposed to "keeping up with the Kardashians".

On top of that, we are more easily manipulated. We are allowing ourselves to be sold ideas and products from shallow, plastic mannequins, who are lucky enough to have famous parents. I myself have been a victim of this. Recently, I purchased a pastel pink mohair jumper from H&M that I had seen singer Lana del Rey model for a recent campaign of theirs. Did I like the jumper? Not particularly. Did it make me look like Lana? Perhaps ... If she shared the same penchant for biscuits as myself. The point is, I bought it, because, sub-consciously, Lana del Rey told me to. Such levels of exploitations are on par with those in a Nike sweatshop in Bangladesh.

Celebrity culture has corrupted our minds. People hold notions now that talent is optional, morals are irrelevant  starving is sexy and dignity no longer exists. We as a nation have become a herd: people with no discernible, unique characteristics. We are sheep, sponging off the personalities of 'the next big thing', in order to satisfy our seemingly inherent and insatiable desire to 'fit in'.

I can only pray that this is a mild overreaction on my part, and this event will act as some sort of a turning point. I have my fingers crossed that the next generation with shun the shine of celebrity and embrace the new age of intelligent thinking. Maybe there will be the next great novella. Maybe there will be a cure for cancer. Maybe the malignant force that is celebrity culture will be eradicated once and for all.

Or maybe not. Glossy rags could continue to be worshipped, the 21st century equivalent of the Holy Bible, and I could continue to lose faith in humanity. After all, Kimye look set to pocket a cool $10 million from selling their baby's first picture.

Baby joy indeed.


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Legacy

"Oh, you're the one who puked all over herself at Christina's!"

While I was doing my best to cheer up a girl I barely knew in the bathroom of a club at the weekend, she quickly remembers how it is that she knows me - being an absolute mess.

I have written about said-puking experience before - if you haven't read it, allow me to redirect you.

What she said got me thinking. You're probably aware having read previous posts that I am extremely conscious as to what people think of me and it affects me a lot. I stopped and asked myself at that moment - what will I be remembered for?

The saying goes that the good you do is never acknowledged, and the bad you do is never forgotten and I can't help but feeling this applies to me. I obsess over the things I have done wrong or am doing wrong. The good pales in comparison to the bad.

Didn't Beyoncé sing something about 'leaving footprints in the sands of time'? I mean, that's all well and good if you're Beyoncé, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm not actually Beyoncé. What about me?

Will I be immortalised as 'the girl that puked all over herself at an 18th she was invited to solely because of her boyfriend'? 'That girl that kissed too many boys in one night'? 'That attention-seeking girl who asked about ass tattoos on Twitter'? 'The one who bit that girl in Senior Infants, who broke someone's heart on New Year'a Eve, who constantly told lies, was an awful friend and who laid her dignity on the line for the sake of being liked by shallow spiteful people'?

Maybe not. Maybe I'll be 'the girl that got the highest results in her Junior Cert that one time'. Or 'the girl who loved people to the point of no return'. 'The girl who would do ANYTHING for her friends and family'. 'The one who sang Ave Maria, made stupid Batman impressions and never forgot anybody's birthday'.

Maybe.

Maybe it would just be better to be forgotten.

'The girl that never was'.

Childhood memories

My friend asked me to write a piece for her with the title of 'childhood memories'. I won't name names (love you Ellen).  I wrote this in a very short amount of time about a very distinct memory I have of being young. Enjoy!




"Careful! It's not a race you know!"

Mam called for me as I half stumbled out the steps of our house into our expansive back garden. The sun was shining brighter than it had in my living memory. I wish I'd savoured that most of all: it wouldn't shine so frequently in my later years.

From the step, I had surveyed my kingdom: the circular flower bed with the stone border, Dad's numerous vegetable patches spreading all the way to the end of the garden, the fence laden with raspberries and logan berries, the forbidden shed. The question was, where to explore first?

The crunch of grass beneath bare feet was what summer was all about. Birdsong. The scent of sun-cream lingering on my skin. The whole garden was alive, which made it all the more exciting for my exuberant 4 year old self.

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, all around the garden. I lost myself in the life and beauty of everything - everything was special, everything was different. Trees were climbed (though only so far - I hadn't quite conquered all heights yet),  flowers smelt, (something I miss dearly now, thanks to the joys of hay fever  Where else could you find a sheltered bush that was a home for a poor family one day, a bakery the next, and a school the day after that? The game was without end. Even on my own, I was able to find fun wherever I looked for it.

But one day it wasn't fun I found, but a monumental fear that has stayed with me to this day, because of the slightest of incidents.

My garden was the equivalent of a life-sized bouquet. Flowers littered the lawn and my mother's beds were always perfectly pruned. The colours were at their most glorious at that time of year. The air was delicately perfumed. All these conditions combined provided the perfect breeding ground for the enemy
.
Carefree, I ran through the washing line , sheets billowing in the breeze. The circular flower bed was next to the washing line, and was brimming with plants. Dotted among them were several stone statues - a hedgehog with bright red eyes, a squirrel with blue, a frog on a log with green. Time for a nose around, I thought.

I knelt down scrutinized as well as one could at such a tender age. The prettier plants were prioritized above the more ordinary. My particular favourite was one my dad had bought me at a garden fair a year previous - long skinny spiralling stems with delicate pink flowers.

Then it appeared. In all its yellow and ebony striped evilness.

The bee.

A horrendous drone filled my ears. I watched it hover precariously over my plant as I paralysed by fear of this unusual creature. It wasn't a particularly large bee - certainly not the queen bee - but it was large enough to scare the living daylights out of me regardless.  I'd heard about them. I knew that they could sting. The very thought of a bee stinging me gave me shivers. What if it stung me and didn't die and continued to follow and torment me for the rest of my life? I was paralysed with fear.

As the bee flew away in an erratic zig-zag, I ran to my mam and told her everything. She was pottering, as she normally did on days like that fateful one.

"I'll let you on a secret - he's a lot more afraid of you than you are of him", she said knowingly.
But what was that supposed to make sense to a 4 year old? What was I going to do to the little devil? It's not as if I could sting him. I went inside to the safety of the kitchen and pondered how I could continue life knowing 'they' were out there.

However, this was promptly forgotten when the next sweltering day came around, when there were many more of them out in force. Looking back, I think it taught me something important and I didn't even realise. There's no point being afraid of something bad that might happen, because you'll just end up missing out on all the good.

Mind you, I'm still bloody terrified of bees.

Dog's life

Why do people who are older, more experienced and in a position of higher authority feel the need to talk down to other people?

I am related to someone who has an awful habit of doing this. I wouldn't expect a stranger to speak down to me, let alone someone who shares the same family as myself.

It irritates me beyond belief. I accept in many cases that the person is wiser/more experienced/has more authority than me. And you know what? I am thrilled for them. I can only hope one day that I am as wise/experienced as they are. I really do.

However, that doesn't mean that everyone else is lesser than they are. Nothing makes them any less of a person. Why then, do people feel that it's ok to treat people and speak to people like they are dogs? I can't fathom it.

Respect is a two-way street, believe it or not. When I, for example, disrespect these same people, I am quickly reprimanded and made to feel even smaller than usual. Double standards, anyone?

Treat me as equal and you can expect the exact same in return - it's as simple as that.

Not 'goodbye', just 'see you later': how emigration has effected me

How many of you, given the current economic climate in Ireland and abroad, have had someone close to you emigrate recently?

2 weeks ago, one of my closest friends for 10 years emigrated to America with her mother, stepfather, and two younger brothers. Hand-on-heart, it was one of the hardest things I've had to do in my short life.

The move was not motivated by the economy. There were many personal reasons for the move, and it would not be appropriate to discuss them here for public viewing. They found out shortly after Christmas that the step-father's name had been drawn for the Green-card Lottery, and had just under 5 months to prepare for the biggest move they had ever faced - individually and as a family.

To be quite honest, the enormity of it all didn't hit me until the following days. It was the little details that upset me most. It was seeing the driveway empty of the family cars. It was seeing the refrigerator stripped of the amusing fridge magnets that I was so familiar with. It was seeing the shelves bare of photographs documenting each stage of the childrens' lives. It was seeing my best friend's room turned into nothing but an empty shell, full of boxes. It was knowing that this would be the last time I'd ever be in this house with my 'second family', as I had so affectionately nicknamed them. It was realising that this was actually happening.

Emigration has far-reaching consequences, and not just for the family themselves. The childhood best friends are left with lingering memories. Their large extended families are left without nieces, nephews and cousins. An empty chair in a classroom. A cleaned-out office space. It broke my heart a little bit to see them go.

Nowadays, however, thanks to the beauty that is modern technology, I can remain in contact with my friend quite easily, (Viber, Skype, I am forever in your debt), and her step-dad's regular Instagram uploads allow me to 'oooh' and 'awwwww' appropriately at her little brothers living the American dream. I've told her I'll visit next summer following the Leaving Cert. That all depends on whether I save up enough money and get a job, which, in this recession, is proving near to impossible. The economy is clearly determined to drive me away from my friend!

I can't help but feel on edge as to who'll be next, as it is inevitable - she will not be the last of my friends to emigrate within the next year or two. Be it for financial reasons or not, more and more people are emigrating every day. Who will it be next? Maybe it'll be even closer to home? My brother or sister perhaps? I'm not sure my poor little heart could bear it. Why whether the exact same storm somewhere far away when you can do it in the comfort of your home, surrounded by the people that love you?

Perhaps I'm just being selfish. Or perhaps the grass isn't always greener on the other side of the fence. Take your pick.