I had those bangs that both curled up and down like an expanding spider on my forehead, highlighted by the scrunchy sprouting part of my hair into a side waterfall. It felt like we’d been in the car for an eternity, wiggling in the back seat, we’d run out of games and wrist-slapping on our California family vacation, when we finally pulled into “Hollywood.” The Los Angeles sunshine was intoxicating. The palm trees, the crisp air, the fashion and fresh fruit made me feel alive despite the long car rides, but by the time we’d finally reached Hollywood Boulevard, we were anticipating seeing, “the stars.” I’d heard stories of seeing famous people there, as our eye spy games were heightened with new intel peering over head-rests trying to spot someone recognizable. When we arrived, after my dad struggled to find parking, we spilled out of the mini-van like fish finally free from circling the bowl, only to look around and ask, “so where is it?” My father saying, “where is what?” “Hollywood.” we said. As a few unhoused people approached, and several Spidermen with varying heights were inquiring for photos, the feeling of confusion began to spread. We walked the sidewalk, the bottoms of our dirty shoes face-planting the revered names etched in golden-like material, looking for the star shapes encompassing those we recognized. An agitated superman walked by as we made our way to a flashy restaurant that hung photographs of the famous people who’d eaten there, laminated and speckled with age and tattered corners. And while eating a cheeseburger and drinking a milkshake that my mother reluctantly watched my dad order, I experienced, “Hollywood.” A bunch of famous names on a street, that were also the seats for street dwellers and sleepers, and people in masks pretending, to make a few bucks.
I’ve always been fascinated by the culture of fame, and the idea of calling celebrities “stars.” And in my profession I’ve grappled with my own ego and brushes with “fame” as the circle of its network have integrated with my normalcy at times. And it’s a strange thing, to work with people who I watched on tv growing up in a lifetime where the famous seemed so distant from my reality, I never entertained the idea of actually crossing their paths, much less engaging, and even b-list befriending. And I’ll never forget meeting a well-known celebrity as he emerged from a bathroom I was entering, that was very clearly just blown up by his prior bowel release, and in that moment, my real-life introduction to this admired person was face to face and nose to nose with the most basic human function while he sheepishly smiled and I noticed the tiny hole in his t-shirt. And the closer I’ve orbited to these “stars,” observing imperfection, insecurity, longing, and humanity in-between touch-ups, takes and spotlights cut off, my limited experiences haven’t been that much different from my initiation to Hollywood Boulevard.
I don’t know what we were looking for, as children on a boulevard, but I think it was a feeling. We were hoping to feel something, experience something, being that close to “fame,” yet still so far away from the real beings inhabiting their names. And as the slow process of disillusionment has occurred in all the aspects of the aging life, I’ve found that these feelings and anticipations of hope and desire, are often complicated when they are originated in the fueled stories of the imagination. Because the things we associate with actresses, musicians, and artists, is a feeling, and that feeling connects us superficially to the creators, but the feeling itself is real, as real as a bowel movement. We can see the stars as they sparkle, and glow, dancing in the midnight sky, untouchable shimmers against the abyss, always to be revered but never truly known. And as we have accurately compared fame to the intergalactic beings that we can only observe but never touch, then the stars can remain beautiful, awe-inspiring, and mysterious, just as god can. The sun, and the moon, and the black holes of light and time beyond will always incite inspiration and thought past our present realities, they can stay golden, representative of our dreams and hopes encompassed by the forever unknown, until we collide.
If we actually could touch stars, we’d be burned alive. If we interacted with their states of being up close, we’d no longer be able to see, to behold their beauty. Because their beauty remains in the wake of their mystery and unobtainable nature. The stars are free enterprise, they can ignite inspiration in our heart, but never be owned, just as the characters admired on screens, will never be the people we know in daily life. And on screens we can fantasize and confuse their nature, we can long for stories beautifully unfurled with soundtracks and crescendos without ever acknowledging that these characters haven’t pooped in the entire “story” of their life on a screen. We haven’t reveled in their bodily functions and basic-ness that makes them actually human. We’ve whittled down the reality, into super-reality, and then spend our lives trying to find a way to live there in the fantastic, continuously shattered when we find that the stories of our imagination don’t feel like the stories we’re actually living.
And through time the accounts unfold, in history, in present, in tomorrow’s headlines, we will discover a star and its collision with earth. We will discover over and over and over that there are no exceptions to the human state we exist in, and until we grasp firmly, clearly, and acutely that all of these are just people, and all people are the same: capable of good and bad, remarkable and tragic, with no exceptions. And influence, fame, public existence, gender, title and power in any sphere of life does not equate to goodness, truth or godliness, no matter how bright one shines. We are potential energy released through our choices, choices made when the stage lights are off, when the phones are dead. And the energy and impact on humanity from these choices, made in the dark, are the real legacy left when the body dies. And when that human shape begins to decompose, the good energies remain, through thoughtful reflections and recovering memories of true interaction, and if reputation wasn’t a reflection of character, it too will rot and stink long after the being is gone. This is real legacy, not the mythical character of stories passed down.
Art inspires us, strikes our thoughts and dreams as catalysts for new ideas. Music sends us places to keep dreaming and keep us company on a long drive, or holds our hand in a broken season. The art becomes new entities that be-friend us in our human state, and those entities of inspiration can live on past the creators, and can also serve apart from human behavior. But our flaw in humanity is to make a golden calf every time we are inspired by milk. To find these human creators that produce inspiring material, and bow down to worship, turning them into demi-gods. And in that worship we surrender ourselves to the mystic aura of celebrity and forget that they are merely humans, still very capable of dark, human-y things.
I do not know how many more stories it takes, how many more #metoos, #wetoos, #youtoos #ustoos, how many more baffling heartbreaks to learn that the person on the stage is merely giftwrap. That the person who’s hilarious and always so generous at a party, may not be that way at home with the kids. That the preacher, priest, scripture-memorizing-quoting, stage-dwelling, father-son-and holy ghosting, seminary-trained, is not one millisecond closer to God, than any one else in this life, not one shred holier, not one fraction better. So can we stop it, right now, right here? Can we stop making stars and idols of humans? Can we stop measuring someone’s performance as their character? Can we stop protecting false legacies, trophies, and titles over real people? Can we stop associating following and numbers with expertise? And can we stop being surprised that the monster-gods we create with our fandom, are not capable of carrying the burden of god?
My brothers and I practiced the moonwalk in our living room, and twirled grabbing our crotches, wanting to be, just like Michael Jackson. We stayed up late laughing and smiling at Bill Cosby wishing he was our dad. I sat in church meetings, watching prancing worshippers and preachers and thought they knew god more, they had something I did not… I was blinded by the shallow light and then spent years untangling the myths, coming to terms with the juxtaposition between presentation and heart-breaking reality.
But where is the actual reward to this comet living? Is it in an accolade that collects dust in a room somewhere? Is it in the public acknowledgement on a stage that invites you on and pushes you off with gown-clad escorts and symphonic melodies? Is it in the shout out? Is it in the tagged response, the boost in followers, the interview, the acknowledgement, the promotion, the title… is it in the purchase of a mansion large enough to house an entire extended family of refugees at the border, is the reward walking the silent rooms, or filling them with a party of people that pretend to know you? Where is the reward for this great work, this achievement of presentation and ultimate pretending? Where is the threshold of fame before you burn so bright that you explode into the sky, unable to carry the weight of glory on your back? When are you successful? When have you arrived? When is your title enough, your money enough? When is godliness achieved? Is it in a retweet or an instagram boost? Or a job promotion that require more time away from the people you love? Or a title that sits printed on a resumé pulled out, or in the purchase of a second car? When is the dream enough? When is it realized? If we are reaching for destiny, where is the destination, your death bed? Is that when we start living, after we’ve achieved and now we die with the anticipation of a heavenly reward - that if believed to be real, received not based on merit anyway? So why are we still striving toward this flame, so bright and burning?
Michael Jackson abused children because his flame was bigger than his character, and we worshipped the heat while watching the signs of his burning, until his internal flames engulfed him. This is the nature of stars; they burn, that’s what makes them shine. But we have to stop pouring kerosene and start valuing character… the character that builds strong, loved people that build other strong, loved people, that build other strong, loved people, that… and leave the heavenly astroids and planets in the celestial universe, so we can always wonder in awe... And return to our earthly bodies and get to work, in the the cosmic universe of humanity... before we lose another to the fire while blinded by its glow.
