Why I didn't major in history

There are a lot of reasons why I didn't major in history, and many of them have to do with personal preference: After living in Colonial Williamsburg for 4 years, I decided that colonists, even with their wacky butter churning parties and ale-soaked taverns, were boring. I dislike dealing with numbers of more than two digits, which makes it hard to keep track of important years. I despise the study of government, which always seems to be latching on to history's coattails, and I find the idea of competing in a class with Nora Wolf terrifying.

However much I would like to pretend, though, that I would have done excellently in a history class had I deigned to take one, my recent adventures with a certain historical mini-series have shown the situation to be otherwise.

Things I've learned from the 7-part John Adams TV movie (which, yes, I have been watching on DVD. Alone. All weekend):

1) Paul Giamatti (in the role of John Adams) has a finely-shaped skull.

The man repeatedly removes his wig, and, astute history-movie-scholar that I am, I sit up and take notice. I count this one as an important take-away lesson only because Mr. Giamatti is normally not cited for his looks.

2) Thomas Jefferson definitely went to William and Mary.

According to the great truth-disseminator that is HBO, Thomas Jefferson was painfully awkward, bookish and anti-social. When dragged into conversation with the more verbose Adams, he often directs his comments to the ground rather than to poor Mr. Giamatti. That one of my alma mater's most famous grads would act in such a way was less a history lesson than vindication; William and Mary students have not changed much (for reference, see my previous post, on my inability to interact with strangers). Still, it's one of the few things that, half an hour post-viewing, I can remember, and so I count it as a sign of my great historian-type abilities.

3) South Carolina is a douchebag.

While I have no idea who this Mr. South Carolina delegate is supposed to be, I do know that he is one of John Adams' main frenemies in the Congress, and that HBO has decided he is the "bad guy" (denoted by inordinate amounts of yelling, bitchy eyebrow raising, and a smugness that could only be surpassed by that of a true a Mean Girl).

That's it.

I can't tell you the names of any of the important meetings Mr. Adams attended (and believe me, there were a lot). I have no idea if the man attending the meetings alongside him is the famed brewer Sam Adams (though I like to believe that it is, and drink accordingly during my viewings). It baffles me why New York (the delegate, not the state nor the reality TV star) is so fat and belligerent. When I IMDB'd the show, I was astounded to see that Adams' daughter's name is supposed to be "Nabby." Really? Nabby? -- I hope she lives through episode 2 and goes through a revolution of her own, involving piercings, tattoos and a chain-smoking boyfriend.

Had I any brains for history, I might have picked up some actual facts from this, by all accounts, mostly-accurate depiction of our country's birth. I would have gotten a true picture of all the tensions, motivations, struggles and dramas of the real people of the time.

Instead, I formed snap judgments about their character flaws and pitted them against each other in imaginary dramas (SC and Regina George V. John and Nabby Adams, cage fight/bitch fight extravaganza. If this were on HBO I might actually pay for it.).

And that's why, barred from the hallowed and stately halls of history by my own inadequacies and perversions, I slunk off to the English department to receive a degree in something I was good at: nonsense.

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.