This long weekend, I led what constitutes (for me) a celebrity life: boating off the Jersey Shore, partying in a private room in Yankee Stadium, drinking sangria on a rooftop, dipping shrimp in cocktail sauce and not knowing where to put the tails…tomorrow morning will be a rude return to subsistence.
But I had a revelation—emphasis on the “revel,” since I thought of it while drinking. If middle, unknown America takes comfort in celebrity self-sufficiency and humdrum —say, like, Tom Hanks withdrawing money from an ATM, or Sarah Michelle Gellar wheeling her luggage through the airport—then might not celebrities find solace in our excesses and embarrassments? Non-industry people lose face all the time. Wouldn’t it make Lindsay Lohan feel better about herself to see a picture of another coked up troubled teen idling beside a telephone pole?
I give you my last four days as printed in the underground US Weekly.
Real People: They’re Just Like Us!
They have liquid lunch on “the yacht”:
And beckon you with bottle service eyes:
Look! Real People pass-out at sporting events!:
They rudely take calls on their cellphones looking like a Fraggle:
They get photographed in the afternoon tipsily, and unsuccessfully, hailing a cab:
And especially for Brittney from my friend Dan…
Real People pose nude in public with foliage tassels at a friend’s cookout in Astoria:
And prefer a more natural approach to the car seat: