Los Angeles. Celebrity. We see him. We see her. We see them, or they as my roommate likes to jokingly refer to them. They are drinking water. They are at the beach. They have cellulite or a new boyfriend or a new baby named after a piece of fruit – sorry, Gwyneth. I know that joke as gotten tired. Everywhere we go, but do we believe he or she is real? I think my experience has drawn me to contemplate this notion a bit deeper than most for I am a child of Hollywood. Finding that a celebrity is real really allows us to feel and gut and wrench through what we find is our own mortality. To be honest, we all know that every human being is real. What is the big shock to see some flab on a screen star’s thigh or a divorce between the bogusly rendered “A-list” couple. Humans are human. A celebrity is not a robot, but the Hollywood way-back-when machine has time and time again tried to force us to believe that they are -if not a robot an electric-hipped heroine or turbo-bicepped hunk. But we all know this is not true.
I grew up in tinsel town alongside of the normally abnormal because my parents worked hard enough in school and bored themselves with jobs proper enough to afford me an education alongside of some of these elite Hollywood spawn and children who danced and grinned in front of a wide-angled lens. I saw them.
I’ve known the they and the them. And sadly, I am guilty of I wanting that life. A curiosity of experience more than an envy of false reality, but I am fortunate enough to not have been thrust into its wiles at an age too bare and vulnerable. And when I really dig down deeply, I am fortunate enough to know what I really always dreamed of, what I really always yearned for is: story. From knight and elves to princesses and ravens to snowy castles and dewy lanes with poplar trees, it is story that I cherish. It was not-quite-Hollywood. I would be a liar if I said that enchantment did not enrapture me every time I heard Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald or Judy Garland sing a tune and imagine that is was just for me on a celluloid strip refurbished and laid bare on my television screen. But, the thing is, it story, fantasy, the what-if that enraptures me – not the Hollywood tabloid. Which leads me to think of the celebrity in a way that many do not: aren’t these people human beings too? Of course, they are. Aren’t they just a symptom of our love of story and fantasy? There is no doubt about the fact that I could be just like them and so could you for we all are human. I have an old friend who has become a celebrity I cannot touch. I do feel it is very odd that this person exists because to me she cannot fade like the other friends I have not seen in years because I see her constantly on billboards (or even when I google my own name — yes, that happened today. It had nothing to do with me. She is just so widespread she just pops up all over), yet she never sees me. It is quite odd. I do not like this feeling. To me, she is visibly invisible. For her, I am a face melted in the crowd. It must be such an odd thing to be a face plastered on buses and billboard and still be a human. I contemplate and do not harbor sympathy because I know so many of us struggle through everyday and wish for their money and front row seats to everything in the world we could dream of, but still it is a magical wonder that makes me wonder and say hmm.
That is all. Have a lovely evening and see you tomorrow!