Who cares?

That’s the question I ask myself every single time I hear that Lindsey Lohan’s father killed three toddlers in a tragic car crash, or didn’t wash his hands after going to the bathroom, or whatever the latest twist in the Lohan family saga is.

Yes, Lohan is young and wealthy. She is a redhead and boasts a wonderful pair of breasts when most women in Hollywood are starving themselves to 10-year-old boy status.

But that doesn’t mean that I want her filling up every corner of the media. It doesn’t mean I care.

Nor do I care when Paris Hilton, famous for being famous, has her phone hacked, thereby revealing her poor taste in friends (or more accurately, the poor taste in friends displayed by those who associate with her). Yet my inability to muster up any degree of caring has not impacted the degree to which folks like these have flooded the media. It sometimes seems as if entire media outlets have sprung up solely to chronicle the exploits of people who contribute little to the world save tabloid text.

Oh, I know they’re out there. I like to imagine they are lurking in some dark basement, a pristine copy of the 1st Edition Monster Manual (complete with goofy cartoon dragon and awkward centaur guy) just am arm’s length away. Or maybe standing outside some hip club, wide-eyed, camera phone in hand, hoping desperately to catch a glimpse of Nicole Ritchie. Or video taping themselves having bad sex with a bad night-vision camera, vamping for the lens because, well, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?

But sadly, I know I’m wrong on all counts. The people who allow Hollywood’s “It” Girls (and Guys) to remain in the ever-present spotlight for no discernable reason beyond an unconscious need to have somebody in the spotlight, are on line with me at the store. And next to me at the restaurant. And unbeknownst to me, probably at my workplace.

They are, in effect, normal people.

I don’t like to see things that way, of course. It feels comfortable to pretend that these folks are part of some twisted subculture – a cult, maybe – communicating through secret handshakes and knowing winks and nods. They are recruited into their cult only by someone who is already a member, the invitation coming in whispers. They learn about the aliens in the volcanoes. And they have to partake in some ceremony. When you reach the 33rd Degree, they tell you the Lost Word. Or something.

Yet I know normal folks enjoy following the exploits of Lohan and her ilk, and would enjoy it even if Lohan did not possess a pair of wonderful breasts. Normal folks with whom I would enjoy a beer. Some of them, dare I say it, pretty cool people.

But why!? Is there some explanation, some reason why these Hip Young Celebrities (tm) are fawned over, their every action chronicled in supermarket rags that sell millions of copies each week, every rumor about them spread across countless Internet message boards?

Because I want these people famous for being famous to go away. I want to shout to them, “Why are you on my TV? Why are you in my magazine? Why are you on my Internet? Go away, Lindsey, and take your luscious cans with you. Take a hike, Paris, and don’t come back. Nick and Jessica, buy an island, move there, and never leave.” (Did you know this guy gets $50,000 per public appearance? Fifty grand!)There ought to be a law, or at least a button. A great big red button on every remote in the world. With lights. That flash. It will be the “Destroy Pop Culture” button, and when you press this button the pop culture assaulting your senses will be destroyed utterly and entirely, the Earth wiped clean.

It’s for the best. I swear it is.