Posted by: stephilepsy | March 26, 2011

Dead Letters to Living Celebrities: George Clooney

So, when I created this here blog, my intent was to give myself an outlet in which to vent my frustration (“cuz if we don’t we’re gonna blow a fifty amp. . . “) about my silly little medical crises and observations from the front lines of the war against illness and mortality. Interspersed with these postings would be lighter fare, such as the post about summer reading or my recurring column, “Dead Letters to Living Celebrities”, wherein I fulfill my deep-seeded need to call out a random famous person on his or her bullshit, so as to give myself a break every now and then and, through the use of humor, keep myself from giving up on the blog, or life, humanity, and/or the universe.

But there were going to be rules. I was not going to do what I am in the processes of doing right (write?) now: no two “Dead Letters” back to back.

I’m really sorry guys. I now know what James Patterson must feel like. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I stand firm on everything I wrote in my letter to him. But I do feel like kind of a hack at the moment.

In my, admittedly sorry, defense, health-wise things have been both rough and confusing, resulting in two hospital stays in the past couple of weeks. I have yet to process any of it. I’m not sure of what my symptoms signify, which symptoms deserve precedence, what sort of physician should treat them, or where on this god-forsaken planet I should go to pursue said treatment.

So, in classic stephilepsy form, instead of dealing with her own internal injuries, she will call attention to someone else’s instead.

No, I do not think this is a defense mechanism.

Psychiatry is a load of utter nonsense, if you ask me.

Now that we have gotten ourselves all caught up, ladies and gents, it’s time to dig in to stephilepsy’s unsent mail bag. Oh! Oh my! Why this week’s victim is none other than the millennial answer to Cary Grant: George Clooney. Hmm. Interesting.

Dear George Clooney,

I should state from the outset that even though we’ve never met, I feel as if I know you quite well. I realize that is a terrible presumptuous comment, but it is one I’m confident you hear quite often. Oh, and don’t even try to blame this one tabloid media and the paparazzi and whatnot. My impression of you is drawn solely from your agent sanctioned media appearances. Besides, who are you kidding? You are clearly in love (note I said “in love” as opposed to “love”) with the idea of the entire world knowing who you are, and hanging on to your every aside with rapt fascination. [As an aside, however, I feel that on the behalf of the Videogum crew, you and your A-List pals ought to cease and desist with the whole practical joke schtick immediately. It wasn’t cute 15 years ago, nor is it cute now. It is puerile and irritating.]

Anyway, like many of the unwashed huddled masses who purchase a movie ticket a couple times a year, I used to have a fairly serious crush on you. Ah, you noticed the past tense, did you? I thought you might.

It has nothing to do with age. Aging has only served to make you more attractive, which is somewhat annoying in and of itself. Nor does this have to do with your self-affirmed bachelorhood (more on that later). No, this is about Darfur.

Yes, Darfur. That Darfur. Yes, the one in the Sudan. The patch of desert teeming with oppressed people whom you have made it your mission to protect.

Have you ever asked yourself why Darfur, out of all the myriad humanitarian crises on earth, spoken so loudly to you? Why was it do important to save these Christian (the group you have worked particularly hard to save are Christian, are they not?) souls from their Islamic oppressors? Why is it it so very important that they get complete freedom and autonomy? The proceeds from the oil that bubbles beneath the ground on which they tread will go towards immediately improving their way of life, and not into some western shell company (pun intended) and a handful of warlords, right? I mean, once they get their much vaunted independence everything will be great. Just look how well these sorts of national birthing and re birthing processes have gone throughout the world in the past seventy years or so, especially in Africa. What could possibly go wrong here? It’s got win-win stamped all over it!

I think what bothers me most is your own personal motivations behind this whole fucking mess. You chose for your pet charity one where there was no sense of ambiguity as to who was “right” or “wrong” (though, of course, in order to do this, Georgie, you had to wait until the worst of the atrocities were over because it’s only then when clarity truly sets in); where the your fans, having lived through 9/11, would immediately latch onto any story with a religious Muslim as the arch villain; and your business partners would probably salivate at the chance to get in at the ground level and invest in oil refineries of South Sudan.

Oh brave new world that has such people in it!

Is any of this ringing a bell? If so:

You suck, George Clooney. Seriously.

Now, on the off chance I’m being harsh or, you know, totally paranoid, I’ll back up a few steps. There’s this great book I read a few years ago, Clooney, called “Emma’s War” by Deborah Scroggins. It’s an interesting look at one British dilettante’s contribution’s to the mess that is the Sudan, but it also gives a pretty good history of British involvement in the region as well. But the point Scroggins raises that has lingered with me years later is that, in a way, these sort of over the top campaigns and relief work are a sort of modern day imperialism. We’re still acting out of an obligation, “the white man’s burden” and all that, and not allowing these countries the autonomy they require the come into their own. In a way, we’re making everything worse. I’m not sure whether I agree completely with her or not, but I think it’s fascinating nonetheless. And, for what it’s worth, I know I hate it when I feel as if I’m at the mercy of larger forces in the universe trying to care for me. I may be a pathetic little invalid but am quite capable of making decisions for myself, thank you.

I don’t think Darfur needs you, George.

As for the ladies, well, I was going to give you a hard time about your serial monogamy, and your penchant for picking out women who are young and pretty but undereducated in a desperate attempt to ensure you’ll never be tempted into marriage again, but I don’t think I’m saying anything you don’t already know. If it helps, I’m with you. Romance is terrifying. Love is terrifying.

Take care,

stephilepsy

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