Madame Cintra hath hit the nail on the head, tiny and misshapen as that head may be. The central issue here is the mutation of Fame, once an aura that cloaked the highly accomplished as an epiphenomenon, has now become a purely mundane commodity, like sterilized cow manure. CW focuses her incredulous disgust at the most shameless of perpetrators, but one suspects her real targets are not the megelomaniac freaks on the stage, but the mindless legions of zombies that consume the fetid swill as if it were ambrosia of the gods. Fame is now the "radioactive beef" that moronizes both the performer and the audience, in differing ways and in differing degrees. Of course, lurking in the shadows is the implicit recognition of the Corporate absorbtion of Everything into one great happy, megamerged obedience school for lobotomized work-a-trolls who should be thankful for a pizza with The Works as a reward for good company boy self abasement. Corporatism isn't directly assaulted in this book, undoubtedly because Madame Cintra has the acumen to fly under the radar of hidden forms of censorship. But have no doubt, Corporatism is the cause, as it needs to reduce everything it touches into a return maximizing, clearcutting, fume belching money machine. But, know the disease by its symptoms. Superstardom that has evolved into a different Ontological category; Audiences as mass consumers of plasticized crud, the Media as docile and cuddly PR pets, who will say or do almost anything if the price is right. Ms. Wilson, for all her hyperbole and contortionism, is essentially right on in her analysis of the situation, and just about the only person on the scene with the guts and wit to tell it like it is, without shrivelling into the typical careerist bet hedging gooey eyed flattery spewing baby talking goo goo neurotic greasy pole shinnying imbecile. My hat goes of to her. More power to ya, babe.