Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
Every time I interact with humans, I start to wonder how our species ended up on top of the food chain, given the preponderance of knuckleheads. Just look around.
Waiting in any checkout line, there are only a couple of ways to keep busy and eavesdropping is my area of expertise. This morning, I overheard two women discussing a stranger in the other line who had a service dog politely sitting by his side. The man was flipping through an issue of People magazine. (That’s my other specialty: reading all the celebrity gossip mags on display without actually buying them.)
Lady 1: “What’s that mangy mutt doing in the store?”
Lady 2: “It’s a service dog, Marva. That sweet man is obviously blind.”
Did I mention that the man reading the magazine was wearing a medical alert bracelet and holding car keys? (Diabetic, maybe. But not blind.) No matter, the women had already focused their frightening brain power on urgent tabloid headlines. Currently, that would be Angie and Brad waging war; Jen’s nasty divorce; Meghan’s royal battles; Fergie’s tell-all expose; Tom getting Suri back; and how some woman lost 18 pounds in two days by drinking buttered coffee. You won’t be distracted by anything as mundane as election rigging or climate change at the checkout counter.
For some reason, the generic masses have always been fascinated by celebrities in crisis. When rich and famous folk have problems, it makes us feel a little better about our own. So what if you lost $50 last week? Be happy you didn’t lose $15 billion like that Zuckerberg twit. Don’t get upset if your 2006 Honda needs brakes. Kim Kardashian’s Bentley does, too. And her helicopter is back in the shop. (You feel better, right?)
We don’t even need real celebrities to worship. In sixth grade, I idolized Abigail Swartz. I can’t remember if she was smart, athletic or kind to gerbils, but I do remember puberty hitting her like a Mack truck while the rest of us gaped in wonder. We knew she had attained magical powers because all the boys went into some sort of trance and didn’t come out until senior year. (That’s how long it took the rest of us to catch up.)
I followed her around like a lost puppy, hoping that her wild popularity might be contagious. Abigail would sashay around the classroom as our newly crowned goddess. The other scrawny, sixth-grade mortals existed only to carry her books or place offerings of Hostess Ding Dongs upon her sacred desk. She was my first rock star. (Of course, this was before The Beatles invaded and I decided to marry Ringo.)
Luckily, celebrity worship isn’t crazy. It’s a completely natural human inclination that dates back to the stone age. Experts who study obsessions assure us that stargazing is fine as long as we don’t lose sight of what’s real and become stalkers. If we were ever overcome by the urge to break into Taylor Swift’s mansion and borrow her cat, it’s time to seek help. The important thing is knowing where to draw the line between fact and fiction, like professional humor columnists do so well.
Thanks for reading. I’d stick around, but Fergie is taking me to lunch and I think her helicopter just landed.
Jan A. Igoe enjoys glitz and glamour as much as the next writer but could live happily ever after if she never saw the headline, “Angie and Brad (fighting/making up/adopting more kids/divorcing)” on another magazine cover. Real people are welcome to join the fun at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.