Breaking Up is, Like, Hard to Do

I'm currently in a tenuous relationship with pop culture. As with any relationship, my affair with PC was at first exciting and filled with discovery. But PC began to make frequent trips to the club restroom, dance on tables, and display a dumbed-down sensibility. We can barely talk anymore. 

Then PC really tested our relationship by befriending The Hills. For my Amish readers (who strangely have an Internet connection), The Hills is a "reality" series that follows the insipid lives of twenty-somethings living, playing, and theoretically working in the Hollywood Hills. 

What's most remarkable about this show is that the characters aren't popular because of their personalities. There is nothing extraordinary about any of them. They can barely articulate their order at the In-N-Out drive-thru. No, they are famous because MTV follows them with cameras. That's it. In the old days, say, 10 years ago, talent was a precursor to celebrity. But The Hills has proved that even the most vapid individual can become famous.

For the armchair sociologist, The Hills injects fresh urgency into a timeless question: Does art inform life or life inform art? In this case, either prospect is troubling. If it's the former, our culture is in trouble. If it's the latter, our culture is in trouble. 

If I had a daughter, I would be terrified. There is rarely anything in entertainment that encourages women to embrace more than their looks. But if I ever do have a daughter, I will make sure she knows that it's okay to be intelligent. That she doesn't have to dumb herself down for boys. That beauty and brains are not mutually exclusive. And that The Hills is anything but reality.

The day is approaching when LC and Co. will depart their Hollywood digs and return to reality-reality. Or, more likely, they'll begin to appear on reality shows for celebrities. But if this show has proven anything, it's that everyone is a celebrity. All they're missing is a video camera.