The Unofficial Russell Crowe Resource Page

This is an article written by Cintra Wilson. Thanks to CroweMate "Vandy Warrior" for posting it.

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July 13, 2000 | We vicariously live our pathetic lives fawning over celebrities; one minor evening in a star's life is worth the prom nights of a million office temps. That is why celebrity dating habits are so desperately important to the world. When a celebrity relationship crashes and burns, it is an opportunity for us, the lowly peons, to chew our nails and speculate, to worry, to analyze. We probe and dissect public relationships with a vigor, ruthless clarity and wisdom we are wholly unable to apply to our own lives or personal dating situations.

Why do we love to hear that a star is fucking another star, or has stopped fucking one star to fuck another star? I will tell you: It is celebrity sexual eugenics, the circulating provenance of famous effluvia. It is never about the fat and screwed-up children two stars could potentially produce. It is about the Celebrated Glaring Body rubbing up against the other Celebrated Glaring Body: two meteors of human attention ultracolliding in a supermagnified, prurient orgasm in a fabulous hotel, all the comforts and privileges of the world fanning out around them in a gilded mandala. Frantic applause fills the streets below! A beehive of spontaneous information spreads the news to the hungry world. The ripples are felt by all.

Even if you never watch TV or listen to the radio or read the New York Post, you will know who in celebrityland is fucking who. The information is more all-pervasive than a wondrously prolific mutation of the flu.

The lower human realms of the world assume that all celebrity coitus is superlative -- there can be no bad sex among the famous. Puffy Combs and Jennifer Lopez couldn't possibly have one of those limp, dry, half-drunken, stressed-out fumble sessions that result in shrugs and apologies. They are so publicly hypersexy, always bursting out of their $1,000 tank tops; they must always explode like tigers into each other's wetly electric flesh, scorching the silken couch cushions, jettisoning platinum gobs of celebrity power into each other's faces! Harrrragh! Klong! Muscles from the sky! Rocket-launch columns of shivering white fire! Hosanna! Peace descends. Silvery doughnuts pass blithely behind their dewy, exhausted eyelids. The aliens watch them -- to learn, to approve, to bless. The planets hum with pleasure; a warm eddy twirls through a frozen wasteland and spring begins in the core of a glacier.

Which brings me to the topic of Russell Crowe. Nothing in the New York Post recently has made my spleen curl and burn more than the revealing of the snog 'n' tickle "relationship" between Crowe and "actress" Meg Ryan. Crowe is a beer-swilling Aussie cocksmith, a Real Man, a thinking woman's bastard, manly as beef is meat. Somehow, the thought of all that wonderful manliness paying all that manly attention to a sniveling, cynical, cabbage-headed, smirking, inflatable, pseudo-childlike, store-bought half-woman like the underwhelming Ryan is biblically depressing.

Crowe should be using his powers for good, not evil, and picking on some woman who invokes awe and fear. Naomi Wolfe, for example. Some gorgeous Oxford biochemist. Michelle Yeoh. Somebody who kicks ass. Janeane Garofalo. Anybody but Meg Fucking Ryan. Whom the gods destroy, they first make mad. The hubris of Crowe has somehow led to his tragically finding Ryan comestible, indicating the trail of corrosion left by some kind of advanced brain worm. Perhaps next year he will quit acting and, like Caligula, wage war against Poseidon, God of the Sea, shouting on the beach in a vein-popping frenzy.

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