wasted oxygen

In theory, General Conference weekend is supposed to be a spiritual highlight. I learned this weekend that this cannot happen if, between sessions of Conference, one gets distracted on E! watching people whose worth to the human community you really must question weekend's train wreck was Filthy Rich--Cattle Drive. Granted, it's not necessarily the fault of the kids that they have minimal value (beyond their wallet); some of their parents are to blame. For example, when you name your child Fabian, you are cursing him to an existence where his sole value will be that he's pretty.

So the premise of Filthy Rich is that you have all these kids who are filthy rich because of their parents (and that's really all there is to it--one girl is on the show because she is the daughter of OJ Simpson lawyer the late Robert Kardashian), and they're supposed to drive cattle across Colorado for some rodeo. There are three cow pokes who are helping them along the way. Of course, what we learn by watching filthy rich children "work" is that most of them don't. It's rather depressing. Thank goodness there are four who seem to have a work ethic (George Foreman III, son of boxer George Foreman; Noah Blake, son of actor Robert Blake; Alex Quinn, son of the late actor Anthony Quinn; and Honorable Alexander Clifford, son of the 14th Baron the Lord Thomas Hugh John Clifford of Chudleigh, Devon), otherwise the cattle would still be at the ranch. The rest sit and watch the cattle walk. Usually.

"Are we driving cattle or looking pretty?"
"A little bit of both."

"There's gonna be mirrors, right?"

"I mean, I can live without Prada, but it's a plus if it's there."

My big question is why do these shows exist? I don't think they cater to our obsession with celebrity culture. I mean, who would want to be these people? It must be some form of schadenfreude then, except are we really deriving any pleasure from these people's "misfortune"? Maybe. If the pleasure we're getting is an observation that absurd amounts of money spoil people to the point that they really can't do anything. It makes me grateful for my parents, slave drivers that I assumed them to be.



On the lighter side, yesterday was Mr. Gordon Matthew Sumner's 54th birthday. (Gordon is more commonly known as Sting.) How did I come across this little tid bit of information you ask? My cousin sent out birthday cards in his honor. Yep. That was a good chuckle. And now I understand why her license plate says "G Sumner."