Fame

Wealth is everything. The lifestyle poll is halfway through its cycle, but there's obviously a trend: money trumps fame. That's to be expected. Who wants to be famous and poor? A much better question would have been: Would you want to be rich if you had to be famous as well?

I have always been mystified by those lottery jackpot winners who step before the cameras with their enormous checks (numerical and physical) for their fifteen minutes. The last place I want to be after winning a fortune is on the front page of the paper. I'm certain there are legal maneuverings that could deposit that ticket into a trust, the sole, anonymous, trustee and beneficiary of which is oneself. Let a lawyer take care of the details while you take the money and run.

Most of us will never experience fame of any significance (or substantial wealth for that matter). We won't ever have our every move scrutinized in our media-saturated world. There are blogs dedicated to single clelebrities. Who could live like that?

A number of years ago I costarred on a television show. Don't worry; you never saw it. No one did. Well, maybe my mother and Curry. I doubt you could even find a reference to it anywhere. Nonetheless, it brought me my only brush with fame, however infinitesimal.

During the run of the show, I was never recognized. People knew me not at all. It would have been nice, I thought then, because I was in the throes of bachelorhood and a little bit of fame might have led to a more prosperous social life. C'est la vie. Then, one day, as I wandered the aisles of Walmart, it happened. With my little red basket in hand I was approached by two attractive young women, perhaps twenty or so. They were demure, but bold enough to ask, "Aren't you that guy on that show?" At first I had no idea what they were talking about, but then it dawned on me. "Uh, yeah, I guess I am," I answered. "I told you," said one to the other. "Can we get your autograph?" My ego puffed up. "Sure, glad to," I answered with all the mock humility I could muster. One of them fished out a pen and a scrap of paper. I had to put down my basket, of course. It was then that I realized the only item in the basket was a bulk pack of Trojans.

That was embarassing, but also enlightening. I saw very clearly that my life was more open at that moment to complete strangers than it would have been without that element of nano-fame. How ugly would it be if I really were a celebrity?

My costar on that television series was a funny, self-deprecating man who understood the fleeting and two-sided nature of fame, but also knew that without it paychecks were few and far between. He used to hand out business cards that simply gave his name and below that his title: Local Celebrity.

I have known semi-celebs in my life. Tony Swartz, a former actor with whom I worked closely for a number of years had been a regular on the original BSG (he played Flight Sergeant Jolly, Rebecca). He hated the little fame he had encountered. When my old girlfriend and I split up she shared an apartment with a former child star, Lisa Gerritsen. Most famously known for playing Phyllis's daughter, Bess, on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, she didn't even enjoy talking about it and much preferred anonymity.

I have known others for whom the spotlight was everything. Having tasted it and then lost it, they pined for its return. Their lives felt, to them, empty absent the possibility of adoration.

It's pointless and hollow. Just give me the loot.