(December 10, 2009) — It’s not natural to stalk Robert Pattinson—really. But it’s true love, says the lovesick girl, after climbing up a tree and closing her eyes, just hoping she would be bitten by a sparkly creature. Like her neighbor. True love, just like everybody else. She is in love with fame personified—personified by a vampire that doesn’t exist, but previously in love with Johnny Depp, and earlier with Britney Spears, and way back when—with Barney. But that’s sanity compared to Mr. and Mrs. Salahi, who, under the guise of Indian visitors shook hands with President Obama, breaking into the White House—nevermind breaking the law—in an act of self production: they wanted to be reality TV stars. Once upon a time there was something called individualism, after the rock-worshipping trend and before the era of American Idol, when the term “love” meant something different to you than to your neighbor. When people knew who the president was more than who Angelina Jolie married; the first few lines of the Constitution more than that Pattinson is 6 feet, one inch tall. But the Salahis are more dangerous than their viewers. Spending five hours crying over Jon and Kate Gosselins’ breakup is one thing; feigning your child’s possible injury in a homemade air balloon to spark national concern is another. First, there are the motives to question. Bob Smith from South Dakota wants to be a reality TV star because…? There is not much money at stake. There is not much respect at stake. And when you’re stuck with 32 people on an island battling out for survival for the sake of some idiot’s entertainment, who sits binging on ice cream, crying over the elimination of Sandra D., there is not much of a life. But it was never about the money in the first place. Never about the respect or leisure. No. It was for true love—lovesick for fame.