I’m sure we’ve all heard this rather famous quote about gossip before: “If you haven’t got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me.” It’s attributed to Alice Roosevelt Longworth, oldest daughter of Theodore Roosevelt (just in case you were wondering). Probably the most familiar-to-my-generation utterance of this quote comes from Clairee Belcher (Olympia Dukakis) to Truvy Jones (Dolly Parton) in Steel Magnolias. Yeah, I referenced Steel Magnolias. It can’t all be Nietzsche and Shakespeare.

I daresay everyone gossips to some extent, whether it be the vapid vitriol of those Orange County housewives or water cooler banter about a coworker’s proclivities (I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m on the gossipee end of this lollipop stick more often than the gossiper end). I think it’s just one of those ugly genetic glitches we have programmed into our DNA.

Then there are those who make a living peddling the dirty little secrets of celebrities. We all know the gossipy trash tabloids to which I’m referring. They line the aisle in almost every supermarket in the country, screaming their headlines in bold primary colors that are always accompanied by the absolute worst photographs imaginable of that week’s celebrity targets. The one positive aspect of Princess Diana’s tragic death is the fact that, for at least 3 months here in the DC area, several supermarkets removed these overpriced pieces of bung fodder from the main aisles and hid them back in the magazine section. It was a short-lived but well appreciated respite.

I try to avoid making eye contact with these rags, because all they do is enrage me with the thought that there are enough people out there buying this shit that they remain a viable industry. Long-respected newspapers are being forced to shut down or go completely electronic, but the fucking Enquirer plugs on. I failed yesterday in averting my gaze and ended up with an eyeful of a sickness-emaciated Patrick Swayze.

I get that many of us believe that, because someone has chosen a career in the entertainment industry, they have chosen to expose themselves to the constant glare of public curiosity regarding every detail of their existence. I will even confess to spending what many might consider to be an unhealthy amount of time learning as much about my favorite entertainers as is readily available. But a line must be drawn somewhere, and I think a perfect place to start is at allowing an entertainer to deal with serious medical problems in peace and privacy. Mr. Swayze is seriously ill with a form of cancer that is brutal, unforgiving, and most always unstoppable. Why, then, do these smut peddlers feel justified in stalking him and snapping photos of him in his illness-induced deterioration?

Actually, I know the answer to that question: It’s because there are enough people out there who want to see such images, whether out of morbid curiosity or out of a feeling of entitlement because, goddammit, he’s a star and he owes us the right to watch him suffer!

Well, screw that attitude. I don’t want to see these images, and damn the supermarkets for placing them once again in areas that I can’t avoid being. I am truly sorry that Mr. Swayze is so ill, and I wish for him nothing but peace at this time. And while these useless rags choose to exploit his sickness to extend their own cancerous existence, I instead choose to remember him here, in one of my all-time favorite Swayze roles. Yes, that’s right, I think I’ve loved him most as Vida Boheme in To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar. I wrote in my last blog about my secret love for drag queen movies (I really should post a link to those archived posts). I know it’s not high-brow, but it’s so damned funny. And god bless these guys, but they make the ugliest drag queens ever (except, perhaps John Leguizamo).

So, I encourage you all to avoid these tabloids. I encourage you to complain to the stores selling them in prime locations. And I encourage you to go out and rent your favorite Patrick Swayze movie (or pick it from your DVD shelf if you already own it) and celebrate what has made him such an enduring and endearing icon of 80s cinematic schmaltz.