The New Republic has a question for us.
Why Do We Care if Taylor Swift Dates a Kennedy?
Um. We care if Taylor Swift dates a Kennedy?
As it turns out, there are few subjects I can think of about which I care less than the romantic life of Taylor Swift. Self-involved fool that I apparently am, I would have thought that opinion was shared by the overwhelming majority of The New Republic‘s readers. Was I wrong?
Furthermore, is there something about Ms. Swift that makes her somehow more compelling than the average pop starlet? Since I am, in pop culture terms, roughly fifteen billion years old, I don’t tend to listen to music sung by people barely old enough to drink. If you played me a selection of Top 40 hits, I strongly suspect that I would be able to name the artist who sings them no more than one or two times, and that probably by sheer dumb luck. So this morning when I heard a report about the musical influences of Ms. Swift on NPR, my primary response was to wonder who the fish cares. I’m sure she’s just a peach of a person, but the snippet they played of her latest song about breaking up with a Mysterious Celebrity Ex was so auto-tuned it could have been sung by a Tibetan throat singer for all I could tell. I don’t care whether her influences are a little bit punk. (That whirring noise you hear in Lyndhurst, New Jersey is Joey Ramone spinning in his grave that anyone is even asking.) I couldn’t possibly care less who the song is about. NPR couldn’t find something or someone else to talk about?
I realize that musing about this merely proves that the aged British spinster librarian who inhabits my soul is strengthening her grip on my psyche. I’m sure it’s only a matter of days before I start wearing a shawl and complaining about my rheumatism on damp mornings. But is it impossibly curmudgeonly of me to wonder if maybe The New Republic could leave the celebrity reportage to esteemed fellow periodicals Us Weekly and InTouch, and maybe provide one of the few remaining havens from the otherwise unrelenting American obsession with fame?
Or do I just need to take a nice healthy slug of nerve tonic (read: gin), go lie down, and accept that The World Has Changed?