Celebrities are the lifeblood of contemporary popular culture. Alas, “tired blood” is as real a condition of concern for an individual who needs to make changes in his lifestyle as it is for the famous folk everyone follows in terms of their personal styles.
The following eight superstars have all achieved the highest echelons of success by building their own immediately identifiable brands. The downside, though, is that they’ve been at it for a long time and what got them where they are is starting to show signs of ongoing wear and tear… and even the most intoxicating celeb schtick doesn’t age like fine wine.
So before what put them over the top really starts putting us to sleep, here’s a wake-up call to eight notables who need to kick their own schticks up a notch.
As the pampered Pope of the Pussy Posse who jaunts all over the planet via private jets and luxury yachts from one sexual conquest to the next, Leonardo DiCaprio would like you to live more mindfully and be less wasteful in your everyday life. The planet depends on you. Airplane fuel manufacturers, pleasure craft maintenance facilities, and teenage wannabe supermodels depend on him. They’re part of the planet, too, after all.
Aw, shucks! Jennifer Lawrence is just a regular gal who guffaws over the ludicrous haute couture outfits somebody somewhere tosses her into for all those award shows and—oh, looky!—she’s just so adorably awkward in those high heels and makes such kooky faces while sending up how silly all that Tinseltown overkill can be.
Knock it off, J-Law. You don’t get the roles you get by giggling, and you don’t sell the notion that you’re not as razor-toothed a shark as you have to be to garner all that awards glitz by faking a goofy grin.
It’s understandable that, as she approached adulthood, Miley Cyrus wanted to murder, bury and gyrate mostly naked on the grave of Hannah Montana. It was even intriguing when Miley reinvented herself as a weed-scorched, sexually omnivorous, freak-pop performance artist. Please note that those previous two sentences are written in the past tense.
Since then, Miley has evolved not a single tongue-wag, topless photo, or Flaming Lips collaboration past her original swing at going “weird.” There’s a non-fine line between striking and stale, and it’s now been years since Miley twerked over that Rubicon.
Taylor Swift is like Wonder Bread in a Wonder-Bra. She’s traded her songwriting skills to get all dolled up as Culture Warrior Barbie and take on a contrived role in what passes today for serious discussion and, maybe worse, serious music. Even then, T-Swizz’s mimicking of passion fails to convince even less than her references to “this… sick… beat!”
“I’m a bad boy, but your mom still loves me!” Remember when Justin Bieber was in junior high and he kept playing that card so relentlessly? That was nearly a decade ago. George W. Bush had just vacated the presidency. Facebook had only recently opened up to users beyond college students. Smartphones weren’t quite smart enough to do much more than text.
Throughout the years and countless extraordinary cultural upheavals since “Baby” first permeated the pop charts, Justin Bieber has changed significantly only in terms of his hairstyle.
Ah, the millionaire playboy with a conscience of gold. That’s our George Clooney—the beyond-handsome mega-charmer who squired international beauties around the globe to spread messages of progressive high-mindedness while simultaneously promoting one bomb movie after another.
Of course, when George finally tied the knot, it was with an extraordinary superhuman glamourpuss genius supreme. But hey, George still has time to shoot hoops with his dawgs from the now entirely forgotten Ocean’s films and/or a presently sitting head of state, just so long as everybody’s loudly announced convictions pass the Hollywood limousine liberal smell test. What a guy.
In fact, the hyper-capitalist masters of everything forced into our eyes ears, and brains insist that George Clooney is The Guy. He’s sold relentlessly as the living, breathing, corporate mind-control embodiment of marketable masculinity, as evidenced by the semi-annual magazine covers emblazoned with a photo of Mr. Italian Villa Resident Who’s So Nonstop Concerned With U.S. Politics and the words, “How to Be a Man.”
Here’s how to be a human: quit buying into anything sold in the form of George Clooney.
You’re a genius (you say). You’re the modern rock star who has surpassed any previous notion of a rock star (you say). In fact, you’re the greatest artist of all time (you say). Sure. Anything, anything you say, Guy Who Gave Himself a Nickname That Rhymes With Jesus. And that level of overcompensating self-praise is all Kanye West ever says.
You’re also a dude that talks over other people’s records (let alone other people, period) and values stupidity in every form—from shoes that cost six month’s salary to ludicrous ass implants.
Every Kardashian Ever
Something stinks on an apocalyptic scale about the whole Kardashian modus operandass: stupidity as an intellectual ideal, vapidity as a crowning virtue, grotesque gaudiness as the ultimate aesthetic archetype, and all of it for sale to the lowest(-minded) bidders, whose dollars, apparently, number in the billions.
The mindless Kardashian pose combined with the specific monstrosities of the Kardashian posse add up to a perfectly appropriate ethos to usher in the end of the existence in its entirety.
Can the center hold for a population willing to “keep up” with such cosmically repugnant crap? Should it? Will Kim and Kanye name their next offspring after another direction on a map? Only these harbingers of Armageddon know for sure.