An American Celebrity Crisis
by Sean Springer

The recent pratfalls of America's most beloved female celebrities has media gawkers freaked. Though my better judgment tells me there's nothing to fear, I do sympathize with those who interpret Britney's, Lindsay's, and Angelina's miscues as signs that the nation's prosperity is swimming in the toilet.

Emphasizing their motherly, feminine features, these symbols of ideal womanhood have long conjured for Americans the comforting fantasy that caring mothers lurk on every street corner, all eager to cook for them a simmering, home-cooked meal. In recent years, this public service has become all-the-more soothing amidst a declining birth rate and the erosion of the nuclear family.

Awash in pessimism, Americans have cried out for wholesome female icons. Observers are left wondering: "What will the nation do without the right inspiration to bolster the birth rate?"

Kathy Lee Gifford and celebs of her ilk continue to set a good example. That said, their dwindling numbers, coupled with the emergence of bad girls Paris Hilton and Anna Nicole Smith, have destabilized the nation's morale.

And now, it seems that naughtiness is developing into a trend.

First, it was Britney Spears, her binge partying, and the case of a vanishing thong — "She has no redeeming qualities!" celebrity blogger Perez Hilton recently exclaimed. Then it was Lindsay Lohan and a well-documented trip to rehab for her undisclosed addictions. And now, the Times is reporting that Angelina Jolie's image is "showing some cracks."

Concerned Americans should relax and spend a few moments taking in a poem by a certain 18th-century Irish satirist. Imparting wisdom in "The Lady's Dressing Room," Jonathan Swift rhymes off the inventory made by a "Rogue" named Strephon as he snoops through lady Celia's things:

But oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's Bowels,
When he beheld and smelt the Towels,
Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd
With Dirt, and Sweat, and Ear-Wax grim'd.

To his horror, naive Strephon discovers that "the Goddess" is not "sweet and cleanly," but a creature who excretes like any other.

Thus finishing his grand Survey,
Disgusted Strephon stole away
Repeating in his amorous Fits,
"Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!"

The poem sends the comforting message that a woman's straying from the ideal makes no difference to her eligibility. Americans can relax, but only once they

learn to think like me,
And bless [their] ravisht Sight to see
Such Order from Confusion sprung,
Such gaudy Tulips rais'd from Dung.

In other words, they must realize that women, and men alike, are filthy yet lovable creatures.

Unfortunately, Americans are not quite there yet.

Like Strephon, they suffer from the worsening delusion that their female icons linger atop Mount Olympus. Intent on joining their goddesses, they keep cranking up their reliance on celebrity news via a tabloid-flooded market and a burgeoning blogosphere. In turn, the celebs have spent the past year wowing them with their abilities to act, sing, dance, party, bear children, adopt others, and serve as UN Goodwill Ambassadors.

Perhaps most miraculous is the celebrity's transmogrification from a fleshy, nurturing mother to her formerly bubbly, wafer-thin self. Last fall, Britney Spears paid David Letterman a minute-long visit, which amounted to little more than a full examination of her post-natal, toned bod. Such miracles require every ounce of effort, and it seems all the exertion has toppled America's fair ladies, who have begun acting out.

And yet, in spite of a longing for empathy, Britney incurs the people's dismay when a photograph reveals that, unlike a Barbie doll, under her dress lies the anatomically-correct female form. Americans gouge out their eyeballs when Angelina Jolie cops an attitude in response to some thought-provoking questions from Ryan Seacrest.

"What was your day like...? Are you making breakfast?" he asked.

"We had cereal," she replied with restrained irritation.

Those hoping to save this prosperity symbol must look the other way, as further scrutiny of their actions is bound only to burden America's divas and starlets with stress and guilt. Pangs of guilt haunt real women, but arguably in smaller doses, and the benefits of reduced guilt are statistically evident. This past week, the Times presented their own analysis of census data, which indicates that American women are striking out on their own, with a majority, 51 percent, now living without husbands. Liberated from the pressure heaped upon celebs, real women are free to choose for themselves, and they've decided to reject a gender ideal that privileges motherhood, domestic labor, and ineffaceable beauty — and exempts men from these requirements. Unlike the diva, their future is bright and does not involve rehab.

But for now, America remains mired in its silly idealism, surfacing periodically to notice, for example, that their divas are souses, their stars are boors, and their chances of winning the Iraq war are nil. Without the gumption to face the fact that their ideals are unattainable, Americans will cycle endlessly between shock, outrage and blissful denial.

E-mail Sean Springer at springer at sphincter dot ca.