IN OUR CELEBRITY OBSESSED LIFE, ‘REEL’ IS ANYTHING BUT REAL!

THE HUMAN RACE

 

HOW ‘REEL’ ARE WE?

 

How real are we?

How true are we

to ourselves?

Compelled by the

need to succeed,

are we no more than

fashion clones,

clusters of puppets

manipulated by designers,

clothing manufacturers,

The Stanislavski method of acting

made commercial by Lee Strasberg?

Are we the by-products

of images created

for the big screen,

television, Facebook.

Must we succumb to

the twaddle on Twitter.

Did directors, producers,

writers, actors and the

make-up lady do us in?

Were we suckled on

this  bullshit?

You betcha!

Are our thoughts so

distorted by peekaboo

 innocent faced center-folds

that make male eyeballs

twinkle with lusty female sisterhood

magazines the playground of self-

obsessed males using  fashion  as weapons.

Is it possible that the lot of us are

governed by a legion of empty-headed

news-anchor types who read the news

a safe distance away from

camera men and women who, with

little credit, put themselves into

the line of fire?

Some of the greatest print journalists

I can recall, don’t look like George Clooney,

Humphrey Bogart or even Clint Eastwood.

They aren’t pretty to look at.

Today, the prerequisite  for a

TV anchor or even a talking head

is to look presentable, smile,

and perform like you’re there in

the midst of danger and despair.

Then there’s the world of fashion

That make male and female eyeballs drop.

The hemline is up.

The hemline is down.

The fly is open.  Pants hug the

butt.  Breasts are large today,

small tomorrow.

The rump is plump,

firm, pouting or touting.

The hair is professionally

ruffled, the eyes are sharp,  fearless,

and belong to Superman or Cat woman.

Study the eyes, the lips, the smile.

Test for tears.   They’re part of TV’s

daily charade grind that screams,

“Trust me!” attempting to

 captures the hearts of

audiences everywhere.

Are we all governed

by such pseudo images?

Has the human race surrendered

to such a slack of honor?

Should we blame celebrities

who in reality can’t even

control their own lives?

Yet we bow with respect to these

perfect facades because they are

our Kings and Queens.

 How real are they?

No matter how masculine,

feminine or gay they might be,

even those who parade on

Hollywood’s red carpet

are only human.

Norman (Jake) Jacoby, a veteran

crime reporter for the Los Angeles

Herald Express, looked like

a happy walrus.  When I was neophyte

reporter for the Los Angeles Times, he

broke me in as a police-beat reporter

at LAPD’s Parker Center.  His comrades were

hardcore detectives who loved  and trusted

Jake despite his walrus mustache, prominent

nose and sardine breath.   If you were in the

market to buy a shiny new Lincoln, who would you

go to:   my mentor Jake, or that Oscar-winning actor

  Matthew McConaughey, who’s constantly seen

peddling that sleek silver automobile

in all those TV commercials?

When it comes to politics and Showbiz

there’s nothing more powerful than

celebrity.  Sorry Jake, no matter how

I’d like to, I’d never buy a Lincoln

 from you.  But I sure like those

 Lincoln commercials.  And I enjoy

listening to McConaughey’s spiel behind the wheel.

      — Boots LeBaron —

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