A few weeks ago, my wife AKL and I went to our first nursery school open house — shopping for something that might captivate young RLK more than Legos, and because she's that age. Little did I know, we'd both be captivated as much as the wee lass. But not, mind you, by the child/teacher ratio, or the sun-filled classroom, or the safe play spaces.
Upon entering the school building and at precisely the same moment, AKL and I noticed independently the presence of local/national "celebrity" parents for whom we have each harbored brief crushes in our day. AKL turned to me and said, sotto voce, "[Name of new it-boy writer] is over there in the corner." I smiled and said, "I'll see your [name of new it-boy writer] and raise you. Hello... [name of Grammy-nominated indie-rock starlet]."
The fact that AKL (who can be prone to such things) had never heard of [name of Grammy-nominated indie-rock starlet] notwithstanding, we were clearly not in nursery school Kansas anymore.
So, as we nodded to and chatted with the local celebs (nothing allows for painless social introduction more than the communal parenting of kids on a playground), it was not difficult to imagine becoming fast friends with these two touched by fame. Exchanging phone numbers, setting up play dates, becoming Facebook pals — because, "behind the music," we're all just folks.
I've met celebrities throughout the course of my life, and — maybe I just haven't met the right celebrities of enormous proportions — I'm rarely impressed, other than by the fact that they all tend to be no different from me but for the size of our royalty checks. (OK, I've never actually received a royalty check.)
I've palled around with the Dead Milkmen, whose drummer, Dean Clean, is a friend; at writers' conferences, I've tossed back drinks with William Kennedy, Susan Sontag, and scores of others far too drunk to appreciate my literary genius; I've chauffeured Kenny G around town (I had a choice between him and Michael Bolton — whom would you choose?). While working (restaurants and retail) back in my salad days, I served legendary jockey Angel Cordero, Jr., boxer Gerry Cooney, and Phillies' Hall-of-Famer Richie Ashburn. Through happenstance, I've wound up in the ring at "Smokin" Joe Frazier's gym, where I shook hands with the man himself (in a non-boxing capacity, I should clarify); met old-school wrestling great Gorilla Monsoon; had old Babs Bush sign a cast on my leg (little did I know at the time that her son could set back a country so far); shared a basketball court with the Harlem Globetrotters; and quite literally walked smack into Matt Dillon (he was looking the other way as well; we simultaneously grabbed each other's shoulder to steady ourselves and apologize, and as we each continued on our way, I kid you not, we both did an over-the-shoulder double-take — as if he said to himself, "Hey, that was just BK").
Celebrity is a funny thing. People have only the status we give them. But my god, we do give it away without a second thought. (Remind me again what Paris Hilton is famous for.) Channel surf during dinner time, and — without even nearing the high numbers in the cable TV lineup — there are a half dozen shows on simultaneously, tracking the movements and machinations of people I could neither pick out of a lineup nor identify by name, occupation, or relationship status. I'll admit I'm not the barometer of hip I once was, but face it — we have come to worship at the altar of half-wits and half-talents, most of whom are no better at what they do than we are at what we do. C'mon, I've been blogging for just over a year, and have already compiled a body of work as impressive as that of, say, Clay Aiken, or Kathy Griffin, or Sarah Palin.
Indeed, I've had small morsels of the 15 minutes of fame promised to me by Andy Warhol, and yes, it's nice. Several years ago, after I made the nightly news by doing nothing more than intently watching a hockey game, a slacker-than-thou clerk at the video store was impressed enough to not only deign to speak to me, but to admit she recognized me from the three seconds I was onscreen during the clip of the game recap.
In college, I played guitar badly and sang badly in a band, but still got plenty of compliments, and the occasional booty call. After seemingly every stage performance of an ad-lib comedy group I was in, I was approached at lunch the next day by one coed classmate or another and told, "You were great last night." She meant on stage, of course, but my friends made great hay of it — and so did I.
Being almost famous is somewhat fun; while, I imagine, being actually famous is great fun — but only briefly; and being super famous is stifling and fun only to those with far greater self esteem issues than yours truly. Yet fame is such a draw that nearly every single dirtbag perp on policeploitation shows like Cops sign waivers to allow themselves to be shown on national TV getting busted for crack, spousal abuse, naked driving, etcetera, without a second thought.
We allow ourselves to be filmed and seen and published under all kinds of circumstances — from waiting in line at the ATM; to posting home videos on YouTube for the world to see; to, yes, writing online weblogs of our personal views, opinions, lives.
My god, what is wrong with me? Do I really swim in the shallow end with all the fanboys, starfuckers, and wannabes? Am I willing to sell my soul for that brief moment in which actual celebrity is fun? When some other jaded 40-year-old blogger in boxers and a t-shirt (whoops, too much information) cynically points to me as the Paris-Hilton–head of the 2010s? And what will I tell my daughter when she asks if that's really daddy on TV, being interviewed by the policeman while the incessant reggae song plays? Or, for that matter, in her classroom, when it's parents' day at her new school?
