Celovebrity

CHIP OF WISDOM:

Proverbs 8, Verse 17

"I love all who love me.

Those who search for me shall surely find me."

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CHIPPED WISDOM:

I've decided: I could never be a celebrity.  I don't have the talent for it.  And I don't mean the talent necessary to accomplish celebrity, although that's certainly debatable, too; I mean the talent for sustaining it.  For perpetuating it.  For feeding that monster, for oiling that machine, for dressing that Reuben.  

I wouldn't, I don't think, be able to process that idea of having fans.  People who repeat my catchphrases at social gatherings or predict the day I'm going to die as part of their celebrity death watch club.  People who would go, "Oh, man!  Remember that scene in ______________" and have them talk about a movie I was in.  That, to me, just does not compute.  Because I feel like, aside from being thoroughly confused by these people, I feel like I would hate them.  I would detest my fans.  It would be like (OH, MAN! REMEMBER THAT) scene in "Life of Brian" where Graham tells all his disciples to "FUCK OFF!"?  

Well, it'd be like that.  

The anniversary of Graham Chapman's death was a while ago, and I'm embarrassed to admit I only knew about it because of Twitter, which I am on because I maintain the work Twitter account.  Our local radio station does a "On this day in suchandsuchayear" thing every day at around 6:30am, and, yes, I'm already at work, dear, thanks for asking.  He died on October 4th, 1989, with John Cleese and Michael Palin at his bedside, both of whom had to be escorted from the room as they were in, or close to, hysterics when the time came.  I remember watching about Graham's passing on "Entertainment Tonight".  I was all of nine years old, and his death had a significance to me even at that early age.  Two years prior, a British classmate of mine introduced me to Python, far too early, and I was hooked on whatever I understand and infatuated with whatever I didn't.  

I was a fan of Graham Chapman's before I'd hit puberty.  

To me, celebrity is about little more than the passing of time.  Life plods along as it must, until Harvey Korman or Walter Matthau dies.  Or Bea Arthur.  Or Gilda.  Or Graham.  And the voice comes on the radio and announces it or you hear about it on Facebook (and it turns out not to be a hoax) and your world shifts a little.  Tectonically.  It moves.  And you get off-balance.  I mean, look at us: we're a Pacino culture.  

Dog Day Afternoon

Scarecrow

Serpico

The Godfather

And that's just the seventies.  This screaming, apoplectic Italian hurricane has been a cinematic force for forty plus years.  What are we going to do when the voice comes on the radio to tell us that we've lost Al?  We're seriously going to lose it.  

Hoo-ah.  

And when he dies, a page will turn.  Something will have broken.  Something falls apart.  

I feel like a large part of who you are is defined by how you feel when a certain celebrity dies.  When John Cleese and Michael Palin or any of the other remaining Python boys expire, cease to be, and go to meet their maker, I may have to be institutionalized for a little while (hopefully I'll get a discount because of my line of work).  And some days I feel like I'm just marking time until a celebrity in whom I am particularly invested dies.

I don't know really what celebrity is, though I expect it's love if it's anything.  To love is to feel ardently for someone in spite of what you know about them or suspect you know.  Celebrities, I'm pretty sure, are probably mostly all rotten to the core, hollowed by being hallowed if they weren't all shit inside to begin with, and yet we simply don't care.  Because we're fans.  And that's what fans are, people who know or probably know and don't care.  

I'm glad I'm not a celebrity.  I don't have the stomach for it.