Okay, so I have a theory that there is a perfect level of fame. It’s the kind where you can get free things (because honestly, we all want free things — especially if you have ever had negative dollars and “splurging” meant buying a hash brown at McDonalds), and the kind where people are like, “You’re the best!” and you get to do the work you love and everybody’s happy.
But that level of fame is made-up, I think, because everybody who’s properly famous seems like they have to stand on red carpets regularly and somehow convey so much information about their personal lives. (And I don’t mean, like, comics and writers we like whose lives we know about because they seem very normal and chill and cool on Instagram and Twitter and on podcasts — I mean that I know more about Ginnifer Goodwin’s life than I do about most of my friends’ courtesy of People magazine, and that is too much information, I’m sorry. I have never watched the show Storybook Gardens or whatever it’s called, but here we are, and here’s where we’ll stay.) There is a fame level — cool/normal/chill/known-but-not-famous and then there’s famous. And “famous” by itself seems awful.
I say this because Lady Gaga recently spoke to CBS Sunday Morning about how being famous is the worst.
“As soon as I go out in the world, I belong, in a way, to everyone else,” she said. “It’s legal to follow me, it’s legal to stalk me at the beach, I can’t call the police or ask them to leave. And I took a long, hard look at that property line and I said, ‘Well, you know, if I can’t be free out there, I’m going to be free in here,'” and pointed to her heart.
“I miss people,” she continued. “I miss, you know, going anywhere and meeting a random person and saying, ‘Hi’ and having a conversation about life. I love people.”
And see? I don’t know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what being famous means (see: aftermath of the Kim K robbery) and how it looks and our weird expectations for other people, and honestly . . . it seems awful? Like, look: there are levels of success that seem awesome. Like, Rachel McAdams has a great career and a sweet life and can also go to Kensington Market and nobody bothers her. That sounds dope as hell. But this weird idea of celebrity we have is a massive buzzkill. Mainly because none of it is real and it’s strange and now people can’t go to beaches . . . ? So look. On days where you’re like, “Ugh, my life sucks I wish I was famous,” I want you to remember the following sentiment: being famous isn’t a bankable thing, and no you don’t. It won’t solve anything. Just live your best life, you sweet, sweet treasure and truly, honestly? Red carpets seem terrible.
Now go do work!