There is an inference of intimacy of being in someone else’s skin on a first name last name referral basis. Clothing and diet drink manufacturers invite you to step up to the plate as a sympathetic identity soulmate of your most significant sports hero. And you know you’re in with the geriatric jet set when you get daily reports about the many types of disagreeable bodily discharges and the intricate web of aches and pains within their bodies. Heavy discussions of the greatest acting luminaries are generally capped off with the obligatory familial exclamations of publicity agents being bantered about as to the relative merits of heir latest performance to date.
Power as called down from a distance in every well-equipped modern living room lounge ritual chamber demands intimate levels of association of admirers with their preferred avatars. In the Hindu religion, the individual Gods occasionally assume a plethora of incarnations. In contemporary America it is the reverse. It is almost as if the personality of one considered notable to be given national recognition is split into an infinitive number of rays as their persona travels forth over the airwaves to be embodied by the consumption of similaritis of nameless phalanxes of fans. How odd that it would be a compliment for some to be told that they look like, “such and such?” One might think that true admiration would single the receiver out as being wholly unique?
Instead bottle of peroxide daily tumble off the shelf into shopping carts everywhere. Sales abound with ‘I-Robot’ quantities of the latest fashion which at best is a mix and match mostly of what has already been done to death. The latest model vehicles that effectively are sired from the same parts inventories sport industry brand fiberglass and molded sheet steel coverlets pretending some sense of uniqueness under the obtuse gnomonologies of chrome logo’d major automotive monopolies. Instead of creating a visibility far above the norm one realizes a quick descent into the shallow grave of anonymous ignominy. Wouldn’t it just be easier to buy all your duds at the thrift store and drive the humblest of rusty old jalopies?