(OT: From now on, I won’t be writing OT (off topic), please just take it as a given that while masculinity and its discontents will remain our jumping off point, this blog will now be everything and its everythings as Dan and I see fit.)
The other day I was at a friend’s barbeque by the river. At the barbeque was a friendly acquaintance who, in the past couple years, has become famous. By famous, I don’t mean in some local or regional or academia-wide or underground sense, but famous as in people-in-Omaha-would-recognize-him-from-the-TV famous. Not like Larry Hagman* or anything, more of an ancillary fame, but famous nonetheless, with, like, projects n’ shit. Projects in development, projects ongoing, projects in the can. And books too. And he or she is famous with pretty good reason, is talented, inventive, clever (but then again, so are so very many un-famous people) . . . . Warning: I don’t have much of a story here, really, it just leads in to other issues potentially well, so if you’re waiting for a great famous-person story, stop right now.
[Actually, here’s an embarrassing one from just the other day. I was emceeing a concert at our local park, (I guess I am famous enough to emcee a party in Turners Falls, MA) and after one act, I was introduced by one of the musicians to her friend ___. I said, completely in jest and over-enthusiastically, You mean ___ as in _____ and the ________s?!? (an 80s band) She, stone-facedly responded, Yes. Awkward silence. Ugh. Now why exactly that moment was so awkward, I’m not sure. I was a bit goofy, sure, but the famous person, or, maybe formerly-famous-now-still-kinda-famous person in front of me didn’t exactly graciously bail me out with a chuckle or happens-all-the-time camaraderie, either. I guess I’d get a lot more readers if I dropped the names of these people, huh? Sorry.]
What I was noticing that afternoon by the river, though, was how people react to famous people and how people react to others after becoming famous. I’ve always been, well, if I’m being honest I’d have to use the word obsessed with fame. I am thankful that my love of New York and somewhat punk-rock (okay, post-punk. Okay okay, New Wave. I was really never a real punk. Okay, Tommy? Okay? There, I said it.) collegiate sensibility prevented me from moving to LA in search of fame (and fortune) after graduation (those two-plus decades ago!) as I think it would’ve killed me, the insatiability of the quest.
But what interested me that afternoon was that (gosh, am I a bit parenthetical and digressive today or what?), aside from getting to do “projects with people you’ve always admired or been interested in, and being paid for doing the stuff you really love to do (maybe), fame seems to be pretty much a big pain in the ass. It makes anyone you meet incredibly awkward or instantly judgmental or fawning or struggling to not treat you like a famous person when you meet them.
For the famous person, it adds a gigantic layer of discomfort and artificiality to meeting anyone, especially the nonfamous (I guess it’s awkward to meet other famous people when you’re famous too – I’ve never witnesses such interactions.). As a famous person, you have to make choices between evils in your interactions with the hoi polloy. The two responses I’ve seen the most are aloofness (because it’s fucking hard to have people see you as this other entitity, the famous person you and running away is an obvious choice. Robert Creeley wrote a great poem about the guy Robert Creeley vs. the poet Robert Creeley.) ; and noblesse oblige, in which the famous person – esp. the newly famous – uncomfortable with his or her position, is overly solicitous of the person trying to deal with the fame standing before them, that is, the famous person tries to comfort the nonfamous for their lack of fame. [please note: my representative sampling is, oh, 6-10 people Ive known well, known a little, or stood near at social occasions.] Only the most naive or stupidest of us regular folk are not made uncomfortable at best, indignant at worst, by said treatment.
Beyond aloofness and noblesse oblige, there are, of course a myriad of other variations. Some people are meant for fame, for better or worse – when it comes their way, they become more comfortable than ever, become raconteurs, happy centers of attention, delighted to put on a show, to hear themselves talk, especially when it’s in the name of pleasing an audience, and we’re all an audience. When it’s done well (Matt Damon), it can be charming, when done poorly (pick your own), it is insufferable.
One fascinating response I’ve ever seen to the disease of sudden known-ness was from Spalding Gray, who I saw a few times after performances and book signings, and who I chatted with at one signing, and another time in an airport as we walked to get our luggage (I had sat right behind him and his family for the entire coastal flight, even retrieved a drawing from their seats that said “me, Mommy, Spalding beneath crayoned stick figures, as we deplaned (god, where did I put that drawing?), long ago, He insisted on listening, nearly silently. One night, after a reading, I watched several people approach him and, a little while later, walk away grinning after telling him their tales. I too was tickled to have told him mine, much more so than I would’ve been after having just listened to him talk to me. It also eased his burden, was likely interesting for him, and, I felt, was a sneaky way for him to procure new material.
It was a generous techinique, but one that also served him, as the people who approached him all seemed to talk themselves out and move on, as opposed to the desperate fan trying to get in his/her words as quickly as possible. When not interrupted and even eagerly listened to by the famous person, the fan is first shocked, then relaxes, tells his or her story, then moves on.
[General note: I’m sure I’ll be accused of projection, that my own insecurities and neurosis around the famous are really what I’m talking about here. To those who say that, I can only say that youre big fat liars, so there.]
I’m not going to go into the famous person at the bbq or how we all responded to him/her or her/him to us, but the afternoon made me grateful for my relative anonymity, and wonder just what it was I craved/crave in fame. Or, no, I kind of know what I crave – it has something to do with people hiring me to write, instead of me eternally having to pitch and beg for gigs; having an audience beyond my friends and family to write for, to have an ongoing conversation with (yes, I want a public); and, as mentioned earlier, the chance to collaborate with people I admire – at least, those are the positive aspects (the icky being-loved-by-tens-of-thousands-of-strangers part goes without saying). Point is, the upsides of fame (or at least the D.-Sedaris/Wallace-Shawn-level fame I crave) are indeed upsides, but when I see it first hand, it just doesn’t seem worth the hassle.
This is all going to connect back to the Conchords, promise, just stick with me. Connections to masculinity, mine anyway, are apparent to me and I don’t want to force them on y’all.
More on the picnic, on fame, and on coolness, in a couple of days. If you have an anecdote or feedback on this subject that you think is more worthy of a post of its own than as a comment, please email me at jamie@jamiebergerwords.com. Thanks.
*Why Larry Hagman?" you might ask. He was, for some reason, the first famous person to come to mind. He also interests me in that many of you will wonder why him, while others of you will, at this point in history, ask, Larry who? whereas twenty years ago very few Americans wouldn’t have known the man by name (or at least by his character, JR, on Dallas). Fame, so fickle, so slippery.
