Yesterday I got sucked into a celeb photo shoot and had to click out of it in disgust. She was just "not feeling the dress"or “Not rocking the dress”. Blah, it’s all so shallow. Considering the dresses cost more then my car who the hell are these experts that are downing them?
Julia Roberts took some fashion risks, what is so bad about that? Calling her dress hotel curtains was a bit low.
What are celebrities like?
I don’t know any, I never will. But I cant help but feel a twinge of sympathy for them.
My best uneducated guesses:
They can never make a mistake or let out their emotions. Ever. The most subtle dip in their popularity could mean X-number of people will lose their jobs. Every day at work a thousand hopeful eyes must be silently be pleading “Please don’t Eff-up…please don’t Eff up! I’ve got a mortgage & tuition to pay! Please don’t Eff-up!” I’m not sure how they can stand all that pressure.
And, if they cant stand the pressure, its all over the check-out lines. I think there was a line from a Nicholas Cage movie once that went something like, “The only thing Americans like more than building monuments to their heroes is tearing their heroes down by their flaws, real or otherwise.”
They can’t flip the bird in traffic. They can’t respond the way you or I would when someone starts crowding your lane on a highway “just to get a picture”. I guess I never understood that.
I’m in the public and I don’t feel I have the right to know if they use EZ-PASS or flip quarters.
They need to sit still and smile while Perez Hilton wanna-bes snark in their face or otherwise shiver their jowls at them about their movie, their project, or about their family. I guess its like you or me having an annual raise review with 20 angry comedians ripping down your last year of work. And not being able to Deck them.
They have to deal & be dealt with by egos so big they have a measurable gravitational pull.
They can never eat a crumb other than whats on the proscribed diet list. (The girl on that magazine cover has never even SMELLED ice-cream.)
They are saddled with personal trainers that make R Lee Ermy seem sweet and touchy-feely.
And if bad movies tell the truth, there’s always some old guy (maybe 5 years from playing shuffle-board daily at a fancy pool club) with his shirt half buttoned behind the scenes, trying to get his money’s worth, trying to hit on all the celebrities with his long gray chest hair, without his wife knowing.
(I’m not sure which would be sexier: the long gray chest hair, or him yanking a pen out of one of the crew’s hands while writing and asking if they could return it for full price to STAPLES.)
And, of course, they’d have to deal with the lowest of the low; the one thing thats worth less than a broken air-condition sitting cub-side on collection day: The Fan.
Fans. They’d want autographs, even when they don’t collect them. They want validation, they want the return of the friendship they’ve heaped on their Toshiba over the years (I pity that picture-tube).
They’d want handshakes, kisses, a job, money for an operation, a reader for a manuscript, an endorsement for an idea or invention, or even a date.
They’d probably pick up tissues a celebrity has blown their nose in and sell it on Ebay. I’ve always wondered why cinematic representations of a Soul being ripped apart in Hell always show one person amid millions of grabbing, clutching hands. And then I remember: They deal with Fans.
I think of celebrities as nice people in a really big closed club with very high walls, barb-wire, and .30 Brownings at the top. And they take turns on the wall keeping the jerks out. I haven’t figured out where the kid with the metal boomerang comes in or what makes him jump, but maybe thats just movie-magic.