Watching Choppy Water from a Cliff

Francis Scott Fitzgerald knew how to live.  He threw such rowdy parties, he was eventually banned from the Biltmore Hotel.  He drank a lot, despite prohibition laws.  He loved his wife, Zelda, deeply. He followed his passion and achieved success in writing. 

But beneath the glamour, consequences festered.  Fitzgerald acquired an alcohol addiction and had to be hospitalized for a short time.  He became abusive towards Zelda and drove her to insanity.  Eventually, he died of a heart attack at the ripe age of 44 in a Hollywood Apartment. 

This dire tale has been repeated countless times in modern-century America among the rich and famous.  From F. Scott Fitzgerald to Elvis Presley to Amy Winehouse, fast and exciting lives die a slow, ugly death.  The predictable sequence of fortune, fame, parties, drugs, breakdown, and, inevitably, death, has been witnessed so many times by the American public you'd think we'd be sick of seeing it by now.  But of course, we're not. 

The lavish lifestyles of the Kardashians and the Real Housewives keep ratings up and the spectacles in the spotlight.  Sales for designer bags increase each year, despite the fact that the average American considers name brands to be overpriced and unnecessary.  And personally, I've wasted entire hours looking up google images of celebrities on the red carpet and the Victoria Secret's Fashion Show and the Grammy's etc.

Because the truth is, I love the glamour.  I love the shiny, beautiful starlets and black diamond nail polish and excessive car collections.  At every award show, I beam upon America’s exclusive clique of popular, Hollywood babies in envious fascination.  And I love the breakdowns, too.  I love discussing the different phases of Britney Spears and I smile right back at Justin Bieber’s mugshot, because what makes the lives of the rich and famous so appealing is the brave, continuous fluctuation of the beauty and the horrors.

I think that's why I am so excited by the beautifully irresponsible tragic life of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Because all of us normal, middle class Americans who obediently attend 16+ years of school and pay our taxes and serve on juries will never dare to live like F. Scott Fitzgerald.  Partly because we don't have the financial means, but also partly because we lack to gull required to truly throw caution to the wind.  But that’s ok, because some of us want to live longer than 44 and not become alcoholics and not live with a piling debt, threatening to ruin our world at any moment.  But while we’re putting away money in the bank for a 401k plan, at least we get to indulge ourselves in the memory of the lavish life of F. Scott Fitzgerald, and pick apart the attire worn on the Red Carpet, and flip through a magazine dissecting the details of the latest divorce in Hollywood.  Through involved observation, we can safely indulge in our reckless impulses.  Because what we are smart and careful enough not to try, those idiots in Hollywood have already tried it.  

So I thank Kanye West.  Because his tempestuous unpredictability keeps my curiosity satisfied and allows me to carry on with my stable life.