When The Stars Fall From The Sky

Dealing with the abstract pains and challenges of being a celebrity must be difficult at times. I am sure that no one sets out to be the object of fascination and ridicule. Once those fifteen minutes of fame kick in, I am sure there are those who would happily give thirteen of them up. Would you like to be an actor? Would you like to be an author? Would you like to be, heaven forbid, a politician? Accepting a life in the public eye isn't as simple as putting your face out there and letting the media frenzy commence. You get to carry around a sack of regrets that will be cataloged for decades, if you are lucky enough to maintain the public's fascination with clever or unique people.
Why should I care about the relative infidelities of John Edwards, Newt Gingrich and Bill Clinton? Because they are a matter of public record. Why should I care about the slow and sad decline of Whitney Houston? Simply put: Schadenfreude. The only thing more exciting than watching someone rise to the top of the heap is their precipitous plummet from that peak, bouncing and scraping off every exposed flaw or peccadillo. Until they hit bottom and we can send the cameras in for the "Where Are They Now?" piece.
The 2011 Playmate of the Year, Claire Sinclair, sought a restraining order against the twenty-one-year-old son of Playboy founder Hugh Hefner, after the son was arrested on suspicion of domestic violence. For the record, which is fond of such things, the son's name is Marston Hefner. The fact that Hef has sired two sons comes as a bit of a revelation, but it raises an interesting quandary: Do we hold these boys who happen to be the progeny of the Head of the Playboy Empire up to the same scrutiny as their old man?
For the next seven minutes? Or until Lief Garrett limps back to rehab.