Humor by John Christmann
The Glut of Personality
I don’t understand the fascination with celebrity in this country. Famous people seem to be in the news constantly for the most mundane things. Honestly, you would think Tiger Woods never hit a tree after teeing off without his driver before.
But I suppose we all have a natural curiosity for people that are in the spotlight. Being a minor celebrity myself, I understand this. I often have complete strangers approach me in public places like stores and restaurants and ask me things like, Hey dude, do you have the time? or Can you tell me where the restroom is? or Would you please sign your credit card slip for me? It happens all the time.
I believe famous people at their core are simply ordinary people like you and me; just a lot more famous and a lot more talented and way better looking and quite a bit richer and a lot more interesting. Their celebrity does not make them any more human.
And that’s the way I treat them.
For example, once I stood next to Clint Eastwood at a urinal in the men’s room of well-known jazz club. I didn’t ask him for his autograph because frankly, it’s not really something guys do at urinals. And I am sure he appreciated the fact that I didn’t start reciting his Dirty Harry monologue either. Or even talk to him for that matter.
And then there was the evening many years ago when I was searching for a parking spot within a grid of one-way streets in a fashionable section of Manhattan. I zoomed up a cross street searching for a vacant spot and screeched to a sudden halt at the upcoming intersection, where, as luck would have it, Harrison Ford was crossing the street.
I watched him casually stroll in front of me, just as if he were an ordinary person. At that moment he was no longer Han Solo or Indiana Jones or even a rugged, iconic movie star; he was just an annoying pedestrian who was delaying me from my rendezvous with a parking spot.
After he passed, I turned the corner in his direction and shot quickly along the short block where I was abruptly stopped by a red light. When the long light finally turned green, I punched the accelerator to turn right only to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting yet another pedestrian entering the cross walk. It was Harrison Ford again.
I guess by this time I had earned my position as a minor celebrity in his eyes because he waved to me in recognition. Funny, though, he only used one finger.
But because I respect the man’s privacy, I did not jump out of my car and ask for his autograph.
And it wasn’t all that long ago that I hired a carpenter to do some work on our house. He was temporarily pulled off a large construction crew that was renovating an old barn on Bruce Springsteen’s estate thirty miles away. He took the accumulated wood scraps and other assorted trash from our house in his truck and tossed it in a big dumpster outside Springsteen’s barn.
It was honor enough that Bruce would take my garbage; I felt no need to publish the unseemly photo of my junk secretly entering the Boss’s dumpster after dark, even though I have it proudly framed on my desk.
I realize of course, that these events are not really newsworthy. This kind of stuff happens to minor celebrities like me all the time.
Still, if I were ever run into Eliot Spitzer on the subway or spot Paris Hilton shopping at a New Jersey strip mall or bump into Bill Clinton at the Burger King, I certainly wouldn’t be inclined to have an affair with them and then release videos later, despite the attention it would bring my way. After all, I have my reputation to think of.
Seriously, I wonder what these people must think when they see themselves splashed all over the magazines every time they go buy milk at the Seven Eleven? Imagine seeing the most unflattering picture of yourself on one of these covers and discovering that you are the governor of South Carolina, or worse, that you have cellulite dripping out of your shorts.
Personally I think the tabloids should have reflective covers underneath their lurid headlines so that every time I pass by I can see myself on the cover of a magazine.
Then I would really know how it feels to be a celebrity.
Then I might actually be inclined to buy the magazine.
Then I wouldn’t feel so sleazy admitting to the entire world that I too had an affair with Tiger Woods.
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