We, the people, have always had an affection for those in the spotlight: the famous. Ever since the first scruffy human guy shuffled back to his clan, pushed his Bieber-ish locks aside and grunted about his near-death brush with a sabre-toothed tiger (making all the bone-in-their-hair females swoon), the tendency to crown the famous and be drawn toward them has been a part of us. (Even then it felt natural that a prehistoric Madame Tussaud should wax-sculpt the famous in all their bear-skinned glory so the human cubs might have their pictures snapped with them.)
Today, even if we don’t really desire fame ourselves, we can still easily get caught up in the wonder, the aura, the lure of fame and celebrity.
I remember back in my touring days being bumped up to first class on a flight out of Chicago. And on this particular occasion I was enjoying the unfamiliar luxury of moderately comfortable seats and ample leg room when, two rows behind me, a fellow started softly whistling to himself. After the first 15 minutes or so, I was getting a tad irritated at this sunglasses-wearing guy sitting back there, slumped in his seat and blowing out thin, squeaky notes while we fellow passengers suffered. It wasn’t until we were deplaning that I realized the tootler was … Billy Joel.
Suddenly my attitude changed. I had just had a semi-private concert from Mr. Joel himself. Maybe he was working on some new hit. Maybe those toots around minute 26 were from one of my favorite songs. I wished he had brought his piano, but I had no problem being happy with the whistle-toothed tiger tale I had to share.
It’s funny how fame will do that. The famous can wow us. What would be annoying if it came from someone else would seem endearing from a star. And sometimes, they can influence us or change our opinions. We, the masses, listen to their thoughts on politics and drinking, fashion and social issues, right and wrong. We listen even though they’re not necessarily more brilliant or insightful than us. Hey, we tend to listen even when the stuff they spout is the most thick-skulled dribble we’ve ever heard. We listen because they’ve made it into the spotlight, and because they’re rich-talented-personable-pretty-witty-connected-funny-loud-sexy-irritating-or simply named Kardashian.
Of course we all know that’s not always such a good thing. Much of the advertising world is built around the concept that, if Jennifer Lopez drives a Fiat, JLo lovers will run to the nearest Fiat dealership, plop down cash and say, “I’ll take what she’s driving,” whether it runs well or not. Many of us might say we’re not prone to the pull of celebrities, but Madison Ave. would beg to differ.
But enough from me. I’d like to hear from you: Have you ever rubbed elbows with a celebrity? How did it make you feel? And if you had been bumped up to first class with me on that flight, would you have tapped your foot in time with the music? Or would you have turned around and told the Piano Man to pipe down already?
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