Demi Moore

You don’t have to be wearing a tinfoil hat to suspect there’s more to the story than “exhaustion.” Exhaustion doesn’t usually merit a 911 call. And an anonymous source who claims to have seen the incident report told E! Tuesday that Moore was “shaking” and otherwise “acting like she was suffering from a seizure,” which certainly sounds like something serious went down – and may have been part of a larger problem.

But from the moment the news broke, there was skepticism that a beautiful, wealthy woman — even one whose recent divorce proceedings render her Twitter handle painfully obsolete — could have it all that bad. The very first response on E!  was a weary “Stress? What stress? I swear, these Hollywood socialites wouldn’t last a minute in the real world!” TMZ, where the story originally broke, had similar sentiments. “Stress? WTF! Obviously she hasn’t been out in real America lately,” wrote one disgusted commenter. On People, a commenter complained, “I am exhausted too. Where is my article in People?” while another said, “For rich people it’s called exhaustion. For the rest of America it’s called working a full time job, plus overtime, running a household, raising kids and paying your bills. Now I know why I am exhausted.” A commenter named Lucy added, “Try working 2 jobs, 60 hours a week, looking after your own household with no hired help and tell me about exhaustion! ” And at ABC News, a woman named Ann wrote, “I look frail and tired EVERY DAY. I am fed up with rich has-beens being a piece of ‘news.’” Wow, all that real-world stress and exhaustion sure makes people angry.

The idea that a lady with an army of handlers to clean her mansion, iron her designer clothes, and mix up her cleanse shakes is stressed out may justifiably stick in the craw of anyone trying to wring one more winter out of that crappy pair of Payless boots. The story, for Moore’s detractors, is black and white: Entitled woman with a jet-set lifestyle hits a bumpy patch when her marriage to her handsome TV star husband  flatlines, can’t handle the “real” world, and has the luxury of retreating to some zillion-dollar-a-week oasis where she is no doubt right now getting a caviar and gold leaf facial – all while the rest of us are picking off-brand Cheerios out of the carpet.

Divorce, sickness, job insecurity and family obligations happen to the rich and poor, the famous and the obscure. And very, very few among us have the resources of a “Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle” star. There are no medals or cash prizes handed out for enduring hardship without a personal trainer or Kabbalah retreat. But it’s certainly not as if a celebrity’s choice to “seek professional assistance” creates a shortage of it for everybody else. Some movie star’s in treatment? Oh well, dammit, now where are the rest of us supposed to go? She’s doing something for her health? Gosh, what a bitch.

If, for whatever reason at all – the end of your marriage, the disappointment of a professional flop, the plain old chemistry in your brain – you were at the end of your rope, wouldn’t the absolute best and smartest thing in the world be to get whatever assistance you possibly could? Or does having a big bank account somehow render an individual impervious to heartbreak or depression? Because I’ve got to say, based on what we know of celebrity, it does not.

There’s still far too much stigma attached to the issues of mental and emotional health and illness. And the idea that anyone, regardless of fame or income, isn’t supposed to be affected by profoundly life-changing events is absurd. Worse, it perpetuates the myth that getting help is for the weak. Just because you can afford “exhaustion,” there’s still no shame in having it — and there’s no shame in getting treated for it. Sure, most of us have to get through storms on the strength of our own, decidedly low-budget, counsel and support. But we still find it in our own ways, because we need to in order to survive. And those who don’t aren’t stronger or more “real” – they just tend to become angry commenters on the Internet.

Exactly what happened in a San Diego Hard Rock hotel a few weeks ago is known only to those who were there. But that particular detail – and Leal’s eagerness to share it – show just how much attitudes and behaviors have changed in the last few years. And that taking risks is no longer the great taboo it once was.

Late last month, right around the time Sara Leal was allegedly getting her Magnum-free freak on, the International Planned Parenthood Federation was releasing a sobering study  on the dramatic rise in unprotected sex among young people worldwide. Since 2009, the number of teens forgoing contraception when they bed a new partner has spiked 39 percent in the United States – and a harrowing 111 percent in France. Unsurprisingly, among the reasons cited were not liking it and not having adequate access to it. The CDC estimates there are “approximately 19 million new STD infections each year, which cost the U.S. healthcare system $16.4 billion annually.” 

Leal is not some doe-eyed high school sophomore, but at 22, she’s young enough to have a different perspective on the risks of unprotected sex than her AIDS-era elders. Whatever she and Kutcher may or may not have done, however, her cavalier boast seems a way of making the story more intimate and authentic. She didn’t just have sex with a TV star, folks – she had the real kind! The kind you’d have with a boyfriend! And then they talked about astrology.

Whatever one might think of the morality of a tale that involves the words “Ashton Kutcher” and “hot tub,” what’s really skin-crawling about Leal’s tell-all is the utter lack of concern she seems to have for herself or her sexual partners. Instead, she paints a picture of being swept up by a handsome, famous man with “good endurance.” And by insisting the encounter was condom-free, she seems to want to imply a certain level of intimacy and trust — while instead coming off as dangerously deluded.

Condoms aren’t synonymous with spontaneity or romance. They tell a person, look, we’ve got to protect ourselves here from any potential diseases. They immediately signal that both parties have had a sexual past and a likely future. Opening the package and getting the sucker on don’t always go smoothly – and they feel different once you’re going at it. That’s why even now, for all the rampant sex scenes on prime time and in the movies, you rarely see a scene of someone fumbling with a box of prophylactics. A condom is life’s way of saying, “Please don’t give me the clap,” and that’s not an easy statement to make with someone whose pants you’re trying to get into.

Yet admitting you bail on protection doesn’t make a person seem sexy or spontaneous. It just makes her sound reckless and dumb. And Leal might now have a harder time finding anybody else who wants to go where she claims Kutcher has boldly gone. Because though she, like the increasing number of teens gambling with their bodies, doesn’t seem to mind that one Americans in six has herpes or that nearly 3 million cases of chlamydia are reported annually, there are still plenty of sexually active adults out there who accept the stark reality that the pleasures of sex have to go hand in hand with the responsibilities of it.

Even a faux breakup can drive Web traffic and sell tabloids. And what with Will and Jada totally refusing to get divorced after all the hype last month, seriously, what choice do the gossip police have?

But the couple themselves has so far remained tight-lipped, refusing to comment on the rumors. And that’s where the Twitter analysis comes in. Because as anyone who’s ever endured — or posted — one of those cryptic, “Sigh. Relationships are so hard,” or “Learning to let go of the pain,” status updates knows, surely all the details of anyone’s private life are encoded within those 140-character bursts.

And so, in this corner, we have Ms. Moore, who, if things go as Us magazine seems to believe they will, may soon have to change her Twitter name from @mrskutcher. Last week, one day before her anniversary, she tweeted a quote from the Greek philosopher Epictetus: “When we are offended at any man’s fault, turn to yourself; study your own failings. Then you will forget your anger.” A man’s fault — that’s clearly Ashton, right? Anger, yes. Over some sort of sexual betrayal, no doubt! As Entertainment Weekly noted , the message was obviously “especially revealing.”

Three days later, she tweeted, “I see through you ….” and a photo of herself with closed eyes. What does Demi see through? Her eyelids? Or Ashton Kutcher’s web of lies? It didn’t take long for Starpulse to describe the image of Moore as “distraught,” while Hollywood News reported that the image proves “that Demi is on to Ashton’s crap.”

Kutcher, meanwhile, who debuted in his new “Two and a Half Men” shoes just this past Monday, has been relatively silent on the rumors. OR HAS HE? On Thursday, he just happened to tweet what was playing on his Spotify account: Public Enemy’s classic “Don’t Believe the Hype.” And right on cue, ABC news was quick to report that “The ‘hype,’ presumably, refers to the reports that his marriage to Demi Moore is on the rocks” and the L.A. Times called it a likely “nod to new rumors of infidelity.” Even more tellingly, Kutcher posted later that “When you ASSUME to know that which you know nothing of you make an ASS out of U and ME.” Also, “Ashton Kutcher” is an anagram for “Cheater hunk rots.” Think about it, America.

Now, maybe Ashton and Demi really are heading to Splitsville. Maybe he really has been doing the do with other chicks. Fortunately for those who care, there’s probably a video or voice mail somewhere that can clear this all up until there’s some official announcement on the subject. (Those “Two and a Half Men” stars, they’re such scamps!) But that’ll be a sad moment for all the rest of us — the ones who get a kick out of watching the likes of ABC News trying to interpret the hidden messages within the Twitter stream of the guy who starred in “Dude, Where’s My Car” and the woman who gave us “Striptease.” I haven’t seen that kind of analysis of subtext since my junior year Irish literature class. Or the last time I got an email from an ex. But in the midst of rumors, innuendo and mysterious messages, just remember one thing that’s certain. The walrus was Paul.

We all had quite the amusing time speculating on how all that could have happened. Fiddle dee dee, could there possibly be retouching in the world of fashion magazines?

One person who wasn’t amused, however, was Ms. Moore herself. Apparently taking a page from the Ralph Lauren book of litigious, self-defeating overreaction, Moore sicced her lawyers on Boing Boing over the holidays for its ongoing and very public questioning of the integrity of the actress’s cover image.

“We are litigation counsel to Demi Moore,” their letter begins. “We are writing regarding the false and defamatory statements and implications about Ms. Moore…” Finally, the lawyers’ missive insists that “the magazine’s cover is a genuine representation of her body and hip” and ends with a demand for “an appropriate retraction and apology” to avoid being “exposed to substantial liability” and a reminder that “this letter is a confidential legal communication and not for publication.” There are also supporting documents from the photographers of the shoot and creative director of W testifying that there was “no retouching of the image.” A letter from lensmen Mert Atlas and Marcus Piggot further asserts “she was super fit to start with!”

Demi, if I may: This never goes well.

Boing Boing’s attorney’s promptly lobbed back his own response, which is a thing of beauty from soup to nuts, but my personal favorite part is where he says, “Boing Boing shall create a new posting advising its readers of your communication, and quoting the statements made by Mr Freedman and Art Partner…” and “shall provide a link to the full text of the materials sent yesterday.” Which, as you can tell, Boing Boing then did.

Boing Boing has also posted a delightful animated image comparison between the American cover of W and the Korean version in which that hotly contested portion of Moore’s anatomy appears to grow a good half-inch or so. That’s probably just a side effect of its transpacific journey.

Oh, and also, just because neither a photographer nor a magazine personally does the voodoo on a picture — or even just a portion of it — doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Pascal Dangin, perhaps the most famous retoucher in the business, has his own firm, The Box, which spruces up the images of the likes of Annie Leibovitz and Steven Meisel. And he’s not the only guy in the business. Just saying.

As we microanalyze the pictures in question, why, you may ask, have Ms. Moore’s shapely form and its contentious fractions of flesh become a matter of such great import? It’s just a picture, fer chrissakes!

Yes and no. Because we, the magazine-reading, Web-browsing, trend-spotting public are maybe not content to swallow whole whatever image a glossy magazine presents to us. We are skeptical of its provenance. We question its veracity. We look for inconsistencies and compare them. We are furthermore perhaps uncomfortable with the notion that a beautiful, successful lily needs a credibility-stretching measure of gilding, as such images tend to present an unrealistic ideal and piss us off. And finally, while we’d totally have Moore’s back if the tabloids were spreading rumors about her personal habits and relationships, the mere fact that she’d demand an apology from a Web site for even raising questions is just pathetic and mockworthy. That’s why it matters. Whether her hips lie, unlike Shakira’s, is a matter of dispute. But nobody’s going to stop us from asking.