Who you calling "Toxic"?

I can't seem to recall exactly how the stars aligned recently to allow me a few spare moments to peruse an old issue of People magazine. Probably has something to do with the fact that Oprah was taking yet another vacation. At any rate, I managed to catch up with the likes of Jennifer Garner (battling a stalker!), Nicole Richie (debuting a jewelry line!) and Michael J. Fox (not cured!).

I skimmed most of it, but I got sucked into an article about Britney Spears and her "I hate when people call this a" comeback. There she was, all depressed-looking in the full-page photograph, followed a page later by a shot of her juggling a bunch of music awards. And while I delved into the article ready to mock the stupid redneck rich girl, it became immediately obvious: this chick is really miserable. All the money and hair extensions in the world can't change the fact that she went nuts, lost her kids and now, isn't even allowed to buy a pack of Hubba Bubba without an OK from Jamie Spears (the dad, not the loose little sister).

But for some reason, I still had this nagging suspicion that all that cash must cushion the crazy just a teeny bit. Isn't driving to your court mandated prescription drug rehab in your Ferrari better than taking the Big Blue Bus?

I had forgotten about the article until a couple of days ago, when I watched a Diane Sawyer exposé on 20/20 about the Appalachian "mountain folk." These people live in trailers surrounded by garbage. They have no teeth because they put Mountain Dew IN THEIR BABY BOTTLES. Many of them are addicted to prescription pills and the ones who aren't spend their black-lung-shortened lives buried in the coal mines. I spent a summer during college delivering pizzas to people just like this, in the Appalachian foothills. An otherworldly combination of stunningly beautiful scenery inhabited by stunningly impoverished people. I got lost a lot, tooling around the backroads in my Subaru wagon with directions like: Turn left at the crossroads. About four miles up the hill, take a right. Follow the path to the clearing, third trailer on the left. A gaggle of dogs, chickens and barefoot kids would come running up to the car. Their dad (brother? uncle?) would offer me fourteen bucks for a thirteen dollar and sixty seven cent pepperoni pizza and a two liter of soda (Mountain Dew, natch).

Point is, it reminded me of my roots (well, if not exactly upper-middle-class suburbia, my brief foray into the real world) and how I used to imagine what people in California might be like. With their fancy cars and their five hundred dollar haircuts. And it made me realize that to somebody in the Appalachian wilderness - darkest dark I've ever seen - I might as well be Britney.

So now I'm gonna spit out my gum and say a little prayer.