Movie stars pretend to be you and me. They pretend to be teachers. Cops. Docs.
And we go gaga when we see 'em. Well, I don't know about "we," but I know about me. The first celeb I saw was John Lithgow and I almost checked into the Gaga Hotel, which, according to the Disturbed-O-Meter, can be compared to the Bates Motel.
Lithgow was sipping cocoa in a Harvard Square chocolate shop. I almost smiled and said "Hey, how ya doin'?" as if I knew him well enough to speed dial him while westbound on I-94 and say, "Johnny! Whus up?"
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I mistook him for a pal because I confused his image being in my house with his being in my house. I never made that sort of mistake again, which was best, because Harvard attracts celebs like berries draw bears.
A few weeks later, I passed Glenn Close in an alley.
I had no desire to blurt, ala Chris Farley, "Hey, 'member when you cried in the shower in The Big Chill? 'Member that?"
If she had nodded, I would have blurted, "I liked that."
And she might have murmured, "Perv."
Thankfully, I let her pass.
And thankfully, she didn't say to me, "Katie, I won't be ignored!" and then boil my bunny, or lunge at me, as she'd once lunged at Michael Douglas after he'd unzipped and rezipped his naughty bits.
That morning, I merely thought, "You're small."
But even Divine would have looked teeny in the flesh when you'd always seen her resized to 20 feet on the silver screen.
I'm glad I adapted. I didn't want folks at Harvard hissing, "Prairie hick!" if I emulated the Ridley Scott's alien in its larval stage whenever I saw a celeb. Okay, okay, they hissed "Prairie hick!" anyway.
But back to the 20-foot faux you and me, a.k.a. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. From interviews, Angelina and Brad seem swell, but who knows. There are public personas and then there are persons. And if anyone can act like "a swell guy," it would be an actor. I suspect they're as swell as one can be after the endless siege of paparazzi picking through one's trash. I also suspect they're a wee wacky. I would be if I were Angelina and faux journalists doctored some other chick's ultrasound and then declared, "Bigfoot's in Angelina's Belly: Brad, ready to sink-bathe the coming critter, is stocking up on Drano!"
Poor Brad and Angelina. They must endure a daily gauntlet. They must pass through tunnels of clamoring unfamiliar faces. And poor me: I nearly know how they feel. Whenever I go shopping, I too must endure a checkout gauntlet-of familiar faces, all clamoring for me to buy a magazine. I just want to buy some yams, but I've got Gwyneth and Angelina and Brad to my left and Angelina and Brad and Gwyneth to my right, day after day, week after week, grinning like Cheshire Cats with bleached choppers.
One day soon, of course, Angelina and Gwyneth will be replaced. Actresses are human mayflies. They might not rise and die, as mayflies do, but they rise and fall. On "The Shortest Shelf Life List," only donuts and bananas surpass them. Rene Russo and Meg Ryan, we hardly knew ye.
But year after year of seeing celebs, of running the gauntlet, I care less and less. I'll never bake a blackberry pie for Brad. I'll never swap secrets with Angelina over espresso. They'll never be my buds. And for that reason, they'll never be as famous to me as Kim Blodgett, Amanda Howes, and Shawna Thomas. Don't bother Googling these three. They're not famous, but because they're my friends, they're famous to me. Honestly, I might want to hang with Angelina for an afternoon, but only because I could then tell Kim, Amanda, and Shawna. It's not real to me until Shawna knows. And I suspect that Angelina, even after 10 tete a tetes, would remain unreal to me, for I first saw her with a 20-foot face.
Whereas I generally contain more crap than a dairy barn, I do like this about me: my friends are enough. I'm enough. I don't need to read about Angelina to feel alive. And I wonder why friends and family aren't often enough for folks. Sure, Angelina's impressive at 20 feet. Her talent is gargantuan too. And I expect she's also impressive at her natural 5 feet and 7 inches, but my buds are major babes too. And unlike Angelina, they talk to me and there's this plus: they aren't allegedly bearing Bigfoot's baby. Amanda, who's pregnant, never stops in mid-sentence to say, "Oh, it just snarled."
And I'm thankful for that.
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Katie McKy is the author of It All Began With a Bean, which answers a child's true query: "What would happen if everyone in the world passed gas at once?" Her work can be found regularly on Raw Story. You can visit her online at KatieMcKy.com.
