Club Famous

I saw Paul Giamatti on my morning commute the other day. Or maybe it was just some guy who had the misfortune of looking just like Mr. G (only without that very handsome sheen of fame and the flattering glow of cash money lighting up his face), but that's not nearly as exciting, so I'm sticking with the famous-guy story.

New Yorkers want everyone to think that they run into celebrities so often that it's more of a nuisance than an event: "Of course!" they heartily guffaw at all you silly, midwestern rubes. "They all live here! They're practically swarming the streets! Gosh, sometimes I wish all these kooky celebrities would just go somewhere else and leave me alone, you know?"

These aggressive exclamations are nothing but bald-faced lies. Seeing famous people is still really freaking exciting, no matter where you live. Being a cool New Yorker just means you're very much aware (and afraid) that you'll look like a tool if you talk to them. New Yorkers, in my observations, often skip the chance to touch the famous in favor of quietly judging them as they pass by.

That doesn't mean it's not totally rad to see someone recognizable.

I live in Park Slope, a neighborhood with a celebrity-to-boring-person ratio of approximately 1.37:2.5 (babies, who are only kinda people but a large segment of the population here, make for some weird numbers). Sure, some of these so-called "famous" are not entirely recognizable -- a lot of writers, for instance -- but, according to all the reports, they are here.

HOWEVER, in nearly a year spent wandering our lovely, stroller-filled streets, I have managed only once to see anyone of note in the area. Granted, that one glorious vision of stardom was John Hodgman, and, when you love NPR as much as I do, a Hodgman sighting is rather like the average person catching a glimpse of, I don't know, John Stamos (sorry, he [as Uncle Jesse, no less] was just the first person to pop into my head -- but do you see what I was going for?). It was kind of amazing.

The reason why movie star/model/really rich person-spotting still manages to send our little hearts a pitter-pattering -- even in the big fancy city (or the big...Brooklyn-y...Brooklyn) -- is that famous people may be our neighbors, but they are certainly not "just like us" -- no matter what those lying minxes over at US Weekly are trying to tell you .

The most stunning difference between the famous and people who are just like us is not the swimming pools full of money or the all-night orgies or the secret stables full of flying unicorns. No, no. It's that they manage to have exciting, decadent, must-watch lives while never leaving their houses.
It's true.

Aside from The Hodg (and wouldn't it be awesomely douchebaggy if he actually called himself that?), I have never seen even the shadow of fame peeking from one of the Slope's brownstone fortresses. I imagine that this is because the "talent" sticks together, going to other famous houses for famous people dinners, playing famous softball in the Prospect Park Famous-Only Softball League, building famous forts with large "NO NON-FAMOUS ALLOWED" signs nailed to the outside.

I mean, really, where ARE these people? What do I have to do to score some face-time with Paul Auster? Sure, Buscemi (of the Steve variety. He's supposed to live a few blocks down from me) may have a great pitching arm, but, really, can we not share the famous? Maybe I want him on my softball team for once. Dammit, Auster, let Buscemi do his own thing!

Confession: I don't really have a conclusion for this post. I mostly just wanted to say, "Hey, famous people, why don't you show yourselves to your resident pretty pretty princess?" I can keep a secret, and I'm really fun at underground hot tub/unicorn/gold outfits parties.

SO, famous people -- those of you with faces that I may have seen on the gossip blogs or on your books -- come to me. Because you're not really famous until I mistakenly identify a random, ugly dude on my morning train as your golden, blessed famous self.