I hear myself telling people from time to time how glad I am that I’m not famous. It’s true that I would detest the part of fame that would cause people to notice me in public, watch me eating in a restaurant, accost me at an airport, or stare at me in a movie theatre, not to mention the inaccurate articles that might be written about my marriage or career or the time I didn’t stop and talk to someone who recognized me. I am supremely grateful for the anonymity with which I move through this world. On the other hand, even contemplating gratitude for my lack of fame suggests that I do indeed think about it more than the average person (who, like me, is not on any kind of life path where fame is a likely outcome). So what’s with me and fame?
Sometimes I cringe at the amount of times I find myself dropping famous names in conversation. I barely notice it when I’m in Los Angeles where statements like “I saw Annette Bening at the dry cleaners” seem part of the standard response to “How was your day?" But when I speak to my family and friends outside of California, I wonder at my motivation for placing myself inside this whirl of celebrity references. Does it come from the same gloating tendency that has me working in comments like “man, is it hot here today!” when I’m talking to someone braving subzero wind chills? Does it reveal some basic insecurity about my life and my need to prop myself up on the shoulders of the rich and famous? Or is it just part of my shtick and a benign form of entertainment?
I am especially aware of this when I’m meeting with my colleagues at my company’s headquarters in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Portsmouth is a gorgeous 17th century seacoast town that could not be more removed from Los Angeles, though to me it’s so quaint I often feel like I’m walking through a movie set. It is so refreshing to be among people who could care less about what’s going on in Hollywood and for whom the word “industry” refers to publishing and not the latest reality show ratings or SAG contract negotiations. And yet, 10 minutes in this delightfully L.A.-free zone and names are dropping faster than Anna Nicole Smith’s credit line. Over company dinners we often end up playing a kind of “Name Your Celebrity Encounter” parlor game, instigated by me, where we go around the room and try to best each other with our most wild associations with the famous. I always win, and usually end up feeling like one of those former high school friends living vicariously off of some second-tier celebrity. So then I vow to never utter a famous name again, and I don’t…for five minutes.
There are aspects of fame that scare the bejeesus out of me. My sister sent me pictures of the crowds at Madison Square Garden who were there to see her husband on New Year’s Eve. Jeff’s celebrity status is growing by the minute and while we all think he deserves every bit of it, it’s still quite surreal to see such enormous crowds mouthing his lyrics and gazing up at him reverentially. Instead of being awed by the huge turnout, my first question to my sister who was up on the stage with him at midnight, was “but weren’t you just waiting to be riddled with bullets at any moment?” God, I’d be a horrible celebrity. I’d start by getting too involved with my fans, have a few bad experiences, and end up as a recluse with long yellow fingernails who pees into empty milk bottles.
Kendall and I do know a fair number of well known people thanks to her family’s show business roots and a few other connections, but I’m taking great pains not to mention them here, despite all my other name dropping, for fear that they’ll see this blog one day and think that I’m exploiting them or making fun of them or betraying confidences.
Oy, I clearly have a lot more to work out with this issue of celebrity and I’m sure it’s one I’ll be revisiting often. The second compilation of my essays I’d like to publish is all about this fixation. Here’s the Table of Contents for that book (seven of these are already written):
Stalker
Notes from the Outskirts of Celebrity
The Family Hour
Pining away for my long-lost kinfolk—the Waltons of Virginia
Mary Tyler Motherhood
From Laura Petrie to Mary Richards: my mother has a feminist awakening (and barely survives)
False Fronts
Touring the underside of Los Angeles with my pornographer uncle and Jayne Mansfield’s ghost
Off with Her Head
The six wives of Henry VIII help me through my parents’ divorce
Falling Stars
Tabitha Stevens and munchkins on life support—forgotten celebrities exact their revenge
Schmoozing with the Von Trapps
Uncovering Julie Andrews’ secret identity
Stalker
How I sent a popular TV actress to the loony bin
Do You Still Act?
A guide for what not to say to the formerly rich and famous
Sing Out, Louise!
My daughter’s foray into children’s theatre transforms me into Mama Rose
Guest List
My brother-in-law is a rock star and all I got was this lousy t-shirt
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