By Craig Ziemba / guest columnist
Ever wonder when you’re standing in the checkout line in front of the tabloids why so many people want to become celebrities? Whether reality shows, balloon boy hoaxes, internet videos, or obsessive self-promotion, it’s disturbing how many Americans are either seeking celebrity themselves, or wasting huge portions of their own lives watching those who are.
As someone with zero interest in the lives, loves, cribs, and tragedies of celebrities, this fixation mystifies me. In a world full of natural beauty, fascinating events, and battles of historic consequence, who cares about the latest spoiled starlet being sentenced for a parole violation? And who needs to see another teary tribute to the pedophile King of Pop?
Why has culture bought into the notion that celebrities are somehow more worthy of attention than say, your neighbors or your children? It’s almost as if we’ve substituted interest in someone else’s charade of a life for interest in our own actual existence. Surely interacting with people we actually know and love is more interesting than watching someone else make (or dump) friends on TV. Isn’t it?
Take an objective look at celebrities. Although the cash flow would be nice, the lifestyle itself is a disaster, especially for those who gain fame at a young age. What many parents fail to think through when pushing their children in front of a camera, is, “then what?”
It’s practically the accepted norm for child stars to end up in rehab, or in court suing their parents, or both. In the words of Brad Paisley:
“Cause when you’re a celebrity, it’s adios reality;
You can act just like a fool, and people think you’re cool
Just ‘cause you’re on TV, being a celebrity.”
Watch the way people fawn over actors, notice the way politicians race in front of cameras, or consider the countless hours teenagers spend updating their profiles and images on internet networking sites in the hopes of being noticed. What is it in our collective psyche that places so much value on being seen?
There’s nothing wrong with entertainment if it’s kept in context. I love concerts, enjoy action movies, and even (don’t tell my hunting buddies) like Shakespearean plays. And I admire good musicians, because like most young boys, I resisted music lessons and wore my Mother down until she let me quit. But although I enjoy their music, entertainers are certainly no more important to me than mechanics or school teachers.
Apparently in my son’s case, the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree. After a year’s worth of lessons, we had his first piano recital. He nervously sat between us until Miss Peggy called his name and then he soberly walked to the piano like a condemned man. Then, he haltingly plucked out the prescribed bars of B-I-N-G-O, avoided eye contact with the applauding crowd, sat down and whispered, “I’m glad I’ll never have to do that again.”
“That’s alright, son,” I said, “I know how you feel.”
If the only performing he ever does was his aborted attempt at being a sheep in the Christmas play, that’s fine by me.
Craig Ziemba is a pilot who lives in Meridian. To have him speak at your event, email craigziemba@aol.com.
