As a journalist, particularly one whose emphasis is onentertainment, I've had the opportunity to interview, either viaphone or in person, a number of celebrities.
I'mnot so jaded, nor so pretentious, that I pretend not to be fazed bythese experiences. On the other hand, I think I handle it a littlebetter than some people. I've never fainted, swooned or gushed, evenin the presence of goddesses like Liv Tyler or Patricia Arquette,though I admit that I did find myself, for a moment, at a loss forwords.
Also, I'm constantly asked what I do and people don't alwaysunderstand it. I tell them I write, edit, assign stories and manage asection of a newspaper and am met with blank stares. People are awhole lot more impressed if I throw in, "Uh, I interviewed AdamSandler once." Then they can relate. Try that line in the right placeand it just might get you laid.
Certainly there's nothing to be ashamed of in admitting you'reimpressed with celebrity, particularly living in thiscelebrity-obsessed culture we call home. But hey, I'm a cool guy, andI should be better than that, right?
Wrong. I'm really ashamed to admit it, but a few months ago I didsomething I swore I would never do.
Since a lot of my friends live in Hollywood, I spend a lot of timethere. Though my schedule is busier now, I used to go spend a weekendor two a month there. I always leave to return home on Sundayevening, which can be a pain in the ass. It's the night they havethose "star-studded celebrity gala premieres" (to quote Jules Asner,Mary Hart or any of the other pseudo-journalists who make a livingout of such tripe) at Mann's Chinese Theater on Hollywood Boulevard.They close down a few blocks so limos can cart the celebrities to thered carpet unhindered by the pesky brutish masses, and to make suretheir $20,000 designer wardrobes aren't torn asunder by rabid fans.
That may read as an indictment towards the pampered celebrities,but it's in fact against the aforementioned brutish masses who, likegood cattle, line up along the other side of the boulevard (held incheck by steel rails, security guards and cops) to bleat like goodsheep when they catch a glimpse of anyone remotely famous (Ohhhh mygaaawd it's Scott Baio!!! Ooooh, it's Screech from "Saved by theBell"). And that's the remotely famous. Get a genuine B-List "star,"say William Shatner, and middle-aged ladies throw their pantiesbefore passing out in rapture.
So I swore nothing short of Jesus Christ's feature film debutwould get me in that crowd.
But then, one day, we were getting ready to leave Hollywood when alocal news flash announced the "Charlie's Angels" premier was aboutto start. OK, it wasn't Christ, but I compromised my principles forDrew Barrymore, Cameron Diaz and Lucy Liu.
We walked to Hollywood Boulevard and waded through the throngassembled at a safe distance from the stars. I was overwhelmed withshame, made worse by the fact that it was an all-around miserableexperience. I forgot my glasses and wouldn't have even been able todistinguish Ms. Lu from Margaret Cho if I had seen her. The onlything I could make out from our vantage point was Camryn Manheim'sass.
But the brutes ate it up. "Ooooh, it's Joey from "Friends!"followed by screeches from the females in the crowd from 13 to 73."Oh, my gawd, it's Gary Busey's son!"
Jake f***in' Busey. I sacrificed my convictions for Jake F***in'Busey..
My misery and shame were amplified by the arrival of some cheekyyoung men carrying homemade signs reading, "Celebrities are BetterThan Real People" and "Free Sundaes for Celebrities."
I had finally had enough and got the hell out of there, with onlya blurred vision of Cameron Diaz from 200 feet away as payment for mydignity.
I still get a little excited when I interview big name stars andpowerful Hollywood elite, but I've found it's a lot more satisfyingto me personally to meet people I really respect, even if tellingpeople I interviewed John Doe on the phone, met Kevin McDonald from"Kids in the Hall" at the Whiskey, saw Aaron Cometbus at a bar inBerkeley or shook Ron Jeremy's hand (actually touched The Hand)outside The Rainbow Room will never get me laid, those are theexperiences I really value.
Thanks to the organizers of the San Diego Music Awards who invited Tempo to the Rock and Bowl, where we were soundly thrashed by other local music types. It turns out we rock, but can't bowl. We don't know what's good for us, though, and are issuing an open challenge to anyone who wants to kick our collective ass. To take us on, or for other random feedback, e-mail us at datempo@hotmail.com.
-- Ken Smith is a senior majoring in journalism.
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