A RANTING

(which has no business in criticism, but I can't help myself)

And, by which I'm proved a hypocrite and a slandering bastard.

A far better tack might have been to polish up the similarities between us and our enemies. Aren't we living in the Hollywood dreams of Tarantino, Bruckheimer, Oprah, the Scott brothers, Speilberg, and the page-turning mayhem of Spillane, Leonard, and Thomas Harris? How much of our aesthetics, our opinions, our aspirations, our very choices in the world are bilged out to the exploitational Celebrity Cults' model ramps for zombies like Paris Hilton, or the Greed-Is-Good hair-stylistics of Donald Trump? There are fake-fear reality shows, moneygrubbing game shows, and sell, sell, sell in every corner of our waking consciousness. Aren't we scuttled as deep as the Holock to presented lives like Angelina and Brad, or the second-hand experience of TV's Survivor idiocies? Unless I didn't fathom his subtlety, O'Leary misses this critical buoy altogether and puts about only to the Holock's pathetic state of addiction.