Monday, August 04, 2008
You know marketolatry has gone too far. . . .
John, Paul, George and Ringo have nothing on Miley Cyrus, a.k.a. Hannah Montana.
And, if John Lennon was right and the Beatles were, back in the day, more popular than Jesus Christ. . . .
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, Mrs. Favog and I attended a 6-year-old girl's birthday party. A 6-year-old who loves, naturellement, Hannah Montana.
Among the loot the child raked in:
* A Hannah Montana doll.
* A Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus CD.
* A Hannah Montana backpack.
* A Hannah Montana notebook.
* A Hannah Montana singing pen.
* A Hannah Montana "activity pack."
* Hannah Montana pencils, sticky notes, etc., etc., etc.
WHEN I WAS 6, the Beatles were all the rage. But even a cultural force like the Fab Four was easier to escape than the marketing apocalypse behind the 15-year-old daughter of Mr. Achy Breaky Heart.
Is there any point to American culture -- at least anymore -- other than pimping the latest disposable teen star to the toddler-to-tween demographic? And then selling the kiddies Jägerbombs and NuvaRings once they -- like fallen tween angel Britney Spears -- achieve puberty . . . and communion with their inner skank?
Sunday, as I struggled with acute Hannah Montana overload, I mused what it does to a teen-ager's head -- even if she did have the advantage (unlike some noted train wrecks) of not being raised by money-grubbing hillbillies -- to walk into a store and see shelves and shelves of . . . herself.
Commodified and idolized.
Personally, I don't think there are enough shrinks in the world to deal with that kind of interpersonal train wreck. Particularly after the applause stops, and all manner of commodified you ends up in the deep-discount bin.
Or worse, at the 99¢ Only Store.
There's only thing more ridiculous than our worshiping some all-powerful deity Who died on a cross and can have His body and blood, soul and divinity become one with a wafer of unleavened bread and a chalice of wine so His creation might feed on Him.
That would be what we worship in His place.