by Lucinda Ulrich
Daily Lobo columnist
It might just be me, but it really seems that there is no such thing as privacy anymore.
It seems like every day I am assaulted by real-life conversations with complete strangers that fall into the "too much information" category. Do I really need to know about a stranger's recent operation, or how much some guy drank the night before, or how many sex records some co-ed broke?
Did I just beam into a George Orwell novel? I must have missed the memo that said, "Hear ye, hear ye! From this moment forward, nothing is private, every detail of people's lives is hereby a matter of public record. Slay the sacred cow. Take her out back, give her one last cigarette, then call up the firing squad and be done with it."
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Since when is it all right to brag loudly about last night's mind-blowing orgasm into a cell phone while sitting at a table at Starbucks? I'm not shy about such topics, but when you get down to it, I guess I prefer to eavesdrop on conversations like these by way of "The Dr. Ruth Show." Call me old fashioned.
It used to be that detailed information about so-and-so's flatulence problem or the big plate-throwing fight with the spouse were reserved for hush-hush conversations with close friends over cocktails at the local dive bar. Nowadays, no detail is too sordid to broadcast on all the major networks. Not only do we slaughter our cows on a regular basis, but we do so on national TV.
Consider the current trend in entertainment: reality television. Like when rap music was born, skeptics abound - but it would seem that like rap, cockroaches and Twinkies, reality TV is here to stay.
In 2000, "Survivor" made its network debut. Instead of watching real starving people struggling to survive in Third World countries, Americans tuned in to the entertaining game of survival of the fittest suburban yuppie on a simulated wasteland. On "Survivor," America got to see the 24-7 trials and tribulations of true-blue, corn-fed Americans up close and personal without makeup, scripts, or french fries.
These were regular Americans like you and me with their eyes on the prize, willing to stab each other in the back for the chance at a million dollars - or even for a hamburger. America was hooked.
People with no shame and no understanding of decency picked their noses, pulled off their bathing suits, screamed, laughed, cried and lied.
And we ate it up. It's Machiavellian to the core, and it makes for good TV.
Quick to compete with the success of "Survivor," other channels rushed to get their own reality shows on the airwaves. There was "The Osbournes," where viewers were treated to an over-medicated rocker struggling to communicate. There was "The Swan," where women who believed they were ugly ducklings underwent plastic surgery, liposuction and professional makeovers.
Now we have "Being Bobby Brown" - proof that wealth is no indication of class. On "Being Bobby Brown," we are treated to highbrow moments such as Bobby lovingly describing pulling out one of Whitney Houston's stubborn bowel movements. I ask you, do I really need to hear this?
It's only a matter of time before we start throwing people to the lions - except today, instead of leading the Christians to slaughter, it will be everyone who disagrees with the Christians.
It would seem that in spite of the fact that we claim to be a country dedicated to freedom, independence and individualism, we are actually a nation of Peeping Toms. Today, nothing is worth keeping secret. The way things are going, any day now I half expect to see George Bush literally peeping in one of my windows. No doubt, when I call the cops to rat him out, the perp will have a hundred reasons why spying on innocent people is patriotic and legal.
Maybe this is a matter of generations. I grew up watching reruns of "Leave it to Beaver" and "The Brady Bunch." My generation, dubbed Generation X by people who had no knowledge of Billy Idol, kept discussions about difficult bowel movements, liposuction and how many orgasms we had the night before where they belonged - in the bragging rights afforded by close friends.
We were familiar with an important feeling called shame. Shame, through a desire for self-preservation, prevented us from making asses of ourselves. Don't get me wrong, I can talk about orgasms with the best of them, but there's a time and a place for everything.
For a generation raised on "The Jerry Springer Show," it would seem that real privacy, like decency, is a thing of the past.
