I think EGO. I hear UGH.
Tim and I were talking last night about what possesses men in positions of fame and power to think that they can do whatever the hell they want, and they get a free pass because they're, well, THEM. And then when they get caught with their pants down, sometimes literally, they're all incredulous about the intrusion into their private lives. They blame the media, the paparazzi, a tortured childhood, addiction, their significant others. It would never occur to them that they, themselves, might want to take a look in the mirror and re-evaluate their own actions and behaviors.
Tiger Woods. Lance Armstrong. John Edwards. Anthony Weiner. Charlie Sheen.
And if they can't take the heat, maybe they should get out of the glaring spotlight that they willingly stepped into in the first place. The one that made them famous enough to land the hot babes and the drugs and the big endorsements and the public platform in the first place.
I so do not feel sorry for them. I know they say they just want the opportunity to play their game or practice their craft or do their art. They don't want the fame.
Sorry, dudes. Maybe you should go be a ditch digger or trash truck driver or elementary teacher or, say, unsung hero of the copyediting world...and play ball or join in community theater on the weekend. It's called a hobby. I'll guarantee People magazine won't care who the hell you are anymore (except for the occasional "what ever happened to..." features).
Neither will the groupies and the throngs of fans who've paid your salaries through ticket sales and purchases of endorsed products and admission to public appearances.
I'm tired of the woe-is-me tortured, misunderstood soul. Take responsibility. Or go peddle your schtick elsewhere. I'm not buying it.