L: 11/04/02

Work Diary, 11/04/02

The closest I've ever come to meeting the truly famous was when my
mother got on the same elevator as Ringo Starr. I've met the somewhat
famous: News anchors, athletes, writers. I have friends in New York
who've come into close contact with the likes of Sting or Madonna, and
if you believe in the theory of six degrees of separation, I suppose
we're all best buds. Once, in the eighties, I followed Jody Watley into
an underwear store. Her legs were disturbingly thin.

The desire to rub elbows with the famous seems strange to me. Other
than credentializing oneself, what is the point? Take Madonna, for
instance. I think she's a real hoot, but would I really want to meet
the woman? What if she had a piece of spinach stuck in that famous
tooth gap of hers? What if she was really mean to the waiter?

I like my stars on a pedestal. I watched an Oprah show once where Oprah
was digging around in famous people's refrigerators, and it depressed
me for the rest of the evening. Is it really necessary to know that
everyone has the same bottled water, old yogurt, and carrot sticks in
the fridge? Likewise, tours of musicians' homes on "MTV Cribs" reveal
stucco mansion after stucco mansion, with the same high ceilings,
stainless steel appliances, and curvy couches. Who cares?

I will admit to enjoying the first pages of People Magazine, which
contain candid photographs of famous people. Often they're sipping
cappuccinos, or pushing baby strollers, or looking pale and homely on
beaches. But their very presence in People Magazine keeps them at bay.
It's highly unlikely that Mark Wahlberg will be lounging next to me on
the beaches I visit.

I should also admit that I've visited a website or two that specialize
in photographs of nude famous people. I'd like to say I found the sites
by accident, but really, I was just curious. Sure enough, they all
looked just like anyone else in the buff, if a bit more fit. Those
visits always left me feeling guilty; I'm a somewhat shy and private
person, and it wasn't hard to put myself in Brad Pitt's shoes (or lack
thereof).

Florence King - an old school novelist and essayist - believes
Americans have a love/hate relationship with famous people. We follow a
star's every move, celebrating his successes and defending him ad
nauseum, but we feel a great deal of pleasure when he ends up in rehab,
half-dead from an overdose. We want that star to be one of us, a good
ol' member of the melting pot, but we spoil him like a favorite child.
He'd better not get too uppity, though?or else.

But even if stars are human beings who burp, break wind, and wake up
face down in pools of their own sick, I don't want to know about. It
messes up the whole Icon/Worship thing. I may not be kneeling at the
altar myself (ahem), but I do try to separate the stars' public and
private personas. It just seems more fun that way.

In the unlikely event that I become famous, I promise to lock myself
away in some ivory tower (preferably overlooking the sea and a beach
full of nude Mark Wahlberg types). I'll make brief public appearances
wearing sunglasses, and allow myself to be photographed only while
looking wan and artistic. When I make People Magazine's Fifty Most
Beautiful People list, I'll wear a beret and get away with it. My
interview will be short yet poignant; the word "tragic" will be
included at least three times. I shall drive a Duesenberg.

Just as it should be.