I’ve been spending some time lately psychologically dismantling my dreams of being famous. I think at one time or another we’d all love to walk down the sidewalk and have people ask for our autograph, or see our face smiling from a billboard. But lately I’m starting to think being an average Joe is a good thing.
What pushed me in this direction was the mental picture of Elin Nordegren Woods reportedly using a golf club to express her pique with husband Tiger’s special friends of the female persuasion. You can’t swing a dead cat, you should pardon the expression, without bumping into someone talking about it.
The days of being able to stumble publicly are over. There was a time when the famous had to fret over the paparazzi catching them with someone not their spouse, staggering after ingesting too much fermented refreshment or some other form of hooliganism.
Now all is takes is someone with a mobile phone and indiscretions can be taped, recorded and put out on to the internet before you can say cause celebre.
Now, I don’t want to put too fine a coat of polish on my halo, but I am not in danger of being caught doing anything like Tiger Woods when he’s relaxing by working on his short game. I don’t go to clubs. I don’t drink. I’m ready for bed around 10. The last time I took a swing at anybody in anger was in high school. I will cop to some rather fractious language and my daughter considers me a fashion-don’t when it comes to my wardrobe.
But even were I to be guilty of any true ignominy very few would care because I’m not famous. So hypothetically speaking, if you stopped your average Sandy Springsteen and said: “Jim Osterman was seen at Burger World at 3 a.m. dancing on the counter with a stripper” the responses would be, in this order:
Was the stripper nekkid? Burger World stays open that late? Jim who?
See? Of course, this also begs the question of why we truly care about a famous person’s indiscretions. None of us can draw a line from how are lives are going and the behavior of folks like Tiger, Angelina Jolie or the Real Housewives. We don’t pay much attention to our property tax assessment, our cholesterol score or who represents us in the state house but we know way too much about who’s on TMZ.com.
We ridicule the good ol’ boy who goes to NASCAR races hoping to see a car slam into the wall, but we track the famous hoping to witness their train wreck moment. And we no longer have to go out and buy a tabloid or run home and see it online — we can get our celebrity moral turpitude fix delivered as long as our wireless phone can pull a signal.
So I’m stopping any pursuit of fame unless I can become famous for minding my own business. Not sexy, but you’ll never see someone chasing me with a golf club.
Jim Osterman has lived in Sandy Springs since 1962.
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