Mrs Morrison's Hotel

The 100% personal official blog for Patricia Kennealy Morrison, author, Celtic priestess, retired rock critic, wife of Jim

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Location: New York, New York, United States

I was, wait, sorry, that's "David Copperfield". Anyway, I was born in Brooklyn, grew up on Long Island, went to school in upstate NY and came straight back to Manhattan to live. Never lived anywhere else. Never wanted to. Got a job as a rock journalist, in the course of which I met and married a rock star (yeah, yeah, conflict of interest, who cares). Became a priestess in a Celtic Pagan tradition, and (based on sheer longevity) one of the most senior Witches around. Began writing my Keltiad series. Wrote a memoir of my time with my beloved consort (Strange Days: My Life With and Without Jim Morrison). See Favorite Books below for a big announcement...The Rennie Stride Mysteries. "There is no trick or cunning, no art or recipe, by which you can have in your writing that which you do not possess in yourself." ---Walt Whitman (Also @ and

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Britney Speared

I feel very sorry for young Britney Spears. No, really. And her little friends too: all those little chickies trying so hard to shock us with their tiresome antisocial behavior because they have damn all else to impress us with. Like talent. Or character. Or giftedness. Or wisdom.

As they wiggle on the hook of publicity like tiny worms, the hook they placed themselves on, they are a pitiable little lot, to be sure.
As a rule I don’t pay attention to them and their stupid human tricks, but it’s gotten kinda hard not to notice. They are everywhere. Acting out. Getting in our collective faces whether we want them to or not. Doing everything but strip naked to get us to notice them. Oh, wait, they pretty much have gone nekkid, haven’t they, parading assorted lady parts for everyone to see. Like anyone cares to look, really. And now Britney shaves her head, horrifically, publicly, and is photographed laughing about it.

Where are her parents? Her family? Her friends? Her minders? Is no one stepping out in front of her runaway truck of a life before she drives it over the cliff? (Taking her infant children with it.)
The girl apparently is in free-fall China Syndrome psychomeltdown. Which is a sad and sorry thing. But she doesn’t have to cave in to it. Nor do her partners in what begins to look more and more like self-hatred acted out on the grand scale.

I would very much like them all to pull their socks up and put their underpants on and GET A GRIP. Out-of-control can be fun for a while, but not for long. And it’s never attractive to the people who have to deal with it, clean up after it or even just watch it.

Listen to me, little girls: WE REALLY DON’T CARE. We’re sick of it. And of you. You have exhausted all sympathy, empathy and interest. If you want us to pay attention, if attention must be paid, then knock off the crap and knuckle down to being a human person and show us some genuine reasons why we should care about you.
If you’re in psychic or psychological or spiritual pain, go heal yourself. In rehab. In holy places. In the bosom of your loving family and/or friends. Whatever. But just do it in private. And stop forcing us to watch your car crash of a personal life.

I wonder what it says that it’s come to this, that it takes desperate behavior of this order to get attention and keep attention. And why these girls are so starved for public attention in the first place. After all, they’re splashed across the tabs and entertainment shows every day of the week, what more do they want? And why do they need so much of it? Volumes could be written in the shrink universe to explain it, I’m sure.

More than that, though, I blame the media for their incessant and pimpish coverage: nobody should have to be subjected to this (did we learn nothing from Diana, Princess of Wales?). Even once the parasites have drained you dry, they still won’t leave you alone. After you die of media poisoning, they’ll just start feeding on your lifeless husk. Look at Anna Nicole. Another talentless, hapless famewhore who ended up Dead By Media. (And sorry, Anna Nicole, you were no Marilyn. You weren’t even a Norma Jean.)

It’s shameful and yes, sinful what the press and TV outlets are doing. By their voracious piranha behavior, the paps’n’tabs are encouraging an attitude of public suicide, or at least soul-killing. There is no reason for people to be hunted and hounded like this. If the coverage stopped tomorrow, we wouldn’t miss it. But the perpetrators would. Or at least they’d miss the blood money, just as their subjects would miss the attention fix. Thing is, addicts always, always need a bigger fix.

Well, I call for a boycott. Don’t read the stories. Change the channel when Extra or ET or Access Hollywood pimps another Brit or Lindsay or Nicole or Paris borefest. Starve them of the attention they seek. Because they’re tapeworms, and such feeding only encourages them, tarts and pimps alike.

Reportage of this sort isn’t journalism, the same way these pathetic creatures aren’t “stars.” Both those honorable titles have to be earned by substance, not by squalidness. And I don’t see much of that around.


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