Fame & Defamation

Yeah, yeah, I get it. We’re all supposed to want to be famous.

I can’t name them all the Kardashians, nor pick them out of a reality icon line-up. But even I, who live under a virtual rock, have seen the glossy pix at the supermarket. That’s how famous they are. It’s traditional to point out that they are famous for having done nothing worthwhile. Very few world-improvers become popular. So the name Kardashian is the synonym du jour for empty notoriety. So what?

It would be nice if we all just wanted to be really good at what we do instead of really well-known for having done it.

Granted, I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with attention. When I was your age, I was five eight and extremely busty. (I still am, but the effect just isn’t the same.) My slutty bordering on skanky wardrobe didn’t hurt. There was attention. It wasn’t the same thing as fame or even fame’s bratty stepchild popularity, but it was a distant cousin. Close enough that I never developed the “want to be famous” mentality. This gives me a peculiar perspective on celebrity.

In the last few days, I’ve heard “I’ve heard about you” as well as “I know who you are” from total strangers. I don’t want to know what they heard, or how they know who I am. I don’t even want to know who they think I am. But within the little goldfish bowl of my life, I seem to have acquired a weird form of semi-celebrity. This tells me two things. First, I may want to rethink my wardrobe. Second, I was right in the first place when I didn’t want to be famous.