There's No Such Thing As Bad Publicity



How low can we go? (image via amazon)

The late, great Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan warned in the 90s that our democracy was in danger of defining deviancy down (The Corsair gamely sips an unassuming Chateauneuf du Pape 1999). Democracy, as the old adage goes, is the worst form of government -- except for all the others (Exaggerated cough suggesting feigned detachment).

There is also an adage, dear readers, about there being no such a thing as bad publicity. Bad publicists yes -- think: the bloated Lizzy Grubman; but not, per se, bad publcity. So true, that. If you drunk drive, say, and rant anti-Semitic something ferocious (sugartits, natch), well then ou are rewarded with boffo box office glory (and a $14.2 million weekend).

Racist? Pshaw! Artfully toss a few "N-Bombs" and your mediocre comedy career could be rejeuvinated like Courtney Cox's forehead after a hot botox injection (Or, for that matter, Robert Redford's ball sac after a crisp "scrotal lift" (Exaggerated cough suggesting feigned detachment). "Seinfeld" Season 7 DVDs are selling like hot crosses.

If you want to get on the cover of the supermarket tabloids (And its pretty fucked up if you do), you'd better be a cutter, a bulemic or an anorexic. Or, in the case of that lowgrade piece of ass magazine Star, you'd better be a woman celebrity with some cellulite.

That significant cultural artifact Paris Hilton -- so famous for doing nothing -- has spun an unenthusiastic "performance" in nightvision porn (she acted in a movie in which her mouth had no speaking role) into a shrewd career maneuver. You too might get to host SNL on the merits of porn (Averted Gaze), clogging up the sinks at 30 Rock with your raggedy-ass weave.

Kill your wife? No problem, homeslice -- no pun intended there. Contact Judith Regan and you just might get a book and tv deal. Murder is the new black.

And one cannot comfortably gravitate in the hip-hop cosmos without having dealt crack. Geologically speaking, you cannot be a star unless you have slung the rock. Hip Hop court jester Chris Rock's extra-special ingredient was lactose and vitamin B-12; Fitty Cent, less extravagent and more concerned with the bottom line ice-brewed his crackrock concoction.

If, say, you fake your novel, one would think that there would be consequences. Financial consequences.

Piffle.

After James Frey-with-the-Fro was caught faking the funk his book sales went into the stratosphere. New Yorkers of all stripes ostentatiously displayed their copies -- proudly -- on the subway. this was, we cannot fail to note, after it was revealed that he had lied!

So you see: There is no such a thing as bad publicity anymore. Just get your name out there in the media. The Lowest Common Denominator ruleth. And then get paid.