While violence plays in the background,

men play in the foreground, defined by their gaming instincts, defined by their undefinability. He follows herds across continents; he follows women across cities. He’s ready to get drunk without regard to reason. She’s ready to reproduce at the drop of underwear, the highest common denominator being the need to abstract. Don’t wallow in the concrete except to sign your initials in the sidewalk. Fame is the price of success, ego’s nemesis coming back to haunt even after the work is done. The lure of fame is a cancer on the face of America, melanoma from the sunlamp, the need for ego fulfillment beyond reasonable expectations. It’s a totally irresponsible situation. It takes some ego to get up in the morning, but it doesn’t have to keep you up all night. Even at its best, fame is fleeting. At its worst, it becomes a substitute for everything that nature used to provide. The most pathetic creature in the world is the man without family nor friends, profession nor place, just ego, to keep him warm on cold nights, to explain the world in all its mystery and complexity, to retro-fit the logic of an illogical world full of people who need it.