Obession With The Glitterati Can Be Truly Puzzling

I just don’t get the obsession with princesses, movie stars and rock singers. I’ve bought exactly one trash tabloid in my life; its cover had a photo of Bill Clinton greeting a “space alien.” The alien “saw right through him,” said the headline. I taped it to my desk.

True, I’ve admired a few famous women: Rosalynn Carter and Mother Teresa. Neither interested the paparazzi.

Besides, my family had its own royalty. Her name was Laura. She taught kindergarten, piano, Sunday School. Married a pastor. Gave birth to five kids. One died in a shotgun accident; John was his name, like mine. She lived for years in Alaska. Befriended native women, filled her house with their crafts. Supported her husband, who demanded that natives and whites worship together in one church, not two. Her husband’s health faltered. She became her family’s rock. She lived to be 99, was fiercely independent, and blind. Visitors from her far-flung family came often to her living room, treasured her wit and wisdom.

Most journalists I know have family stories of their own, and struggle to work with ethics of which those families might be proud.

Most journalists I know have a life, and it isn’t found in some vicarious tabloid fantasy about the rich and famous. Real life is in places like my grandma’s living room. And it’s passed along in values fostered there, now that she is gone. , DataTimes MEMO: In death as in life, Princess Diana was never far removed from the press. The Spokesman-Review’s photo editor, John Sale, and five Opinion Page writers (Rebecca Nappi, John Webster, Jamie Tobias Neely, Doug Floyd and D.F. Oliveria) offer brief observations about that relationship and about Diana as a public figure.