I’ve been following the lives of celebrities ever since I was old enough to flip through the pages of People at the beauty salon while my mom was getting her hair done, though I didn’t really begin to enjoy the juiciness until I hit puberty.
I won’t call it a guilty pleasure because I am utterly incapable of feeling guilty about my 20-year fascination with all people famous. And it’s more than simple curiosity – my celeb addiction is an innate nosiness carried down through generations of Polks, my dad a shining example of the family’s need to know everything about everything at all times, no matter if it’s our business or not.
Lately, I’ve been reading a lot of out-there stories about Madonna and Guy Ritchie’s impending divorce. Like, “Guy Ritchie cancels Madonna's order to fill swimming pool with Kabbalah water.” “Guy and Madonna's marriage ended after 'she began scheduling sex around time in the gym.'” “Rocco Ritchie wears Yankee shirt, Guy Ritchie weeps.” And my personal favorite: “Guy Ritchie Compares Madonna To Gristle, The Cockney Charmer.”
This article appears in Nov 5-11, 2008.