I think our fascination with famous people comes from the same brain cells that brew up our religious impulses. Celebrity worship is sort of like regular worship, right? We imbue famous people with all kinds of qualities they might or not possess. We imagine that they live in a combination Valhalla / Wonderland / Ritz Carlton. We assume they're all peers (some on a higher level than others, of course), and that they all know each other. (On talk shows they actually pretend that this is true.) We long to see them, touch them, be with them.
And we choose our gods, and our celebrities, with our hearts.
And the heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing at all.
I have been mesmerized by the spate of Vladimir Putin photos lately. Take a look at them if you haven't seen them. The best batch (released by his own public-relations people) are from his 2009 Siberian vacation with Prince Albert of Monaco. Putin is portrayed as Papa Bear – a big muscular he-man, goin' a-huntin' and a-fishin' and a-ridin'. It's soft-core porn with a balalaika soundtrack, and I like it very much. (His Serene Highness Prince Albert, on the other hand, looks like a pudgy CEO on a dude ranch vacation.)
So what does my sincere admiration of Vladimir Vladimirovich say about me?
Nothing flattering.
Apparently I'm just waiting for a hunky / corrupt / aloof / intense Slavic-looking dictator to sweep me off my feet, take me camping in the Kyzyl region of Siberia, and maybe give me something nice for Christmas, like Lithuania, or Lake Baikal.
What can I say? Nobody's perfect.
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