I was that kid that watched movies over and over, memorizing the lines and reciting them to my reflection. My old house had an entire mirrored wall, a dangerous installation for such a self-obsessed aspiring star... I'd spend hours in front of it, practicing looks of sadness, or fear, or surprise!, or terror, or glee, or... you get the picture.
Years later, while working in the drive thru at Starbucks, I said something witty (or entirely ridiculous) to a customer, and made some unfortunate smirk in his direction. He laughed and said, "You give good face." I still don't know what the hell that means, really, but I like to think he was trying to say that my expressions were fantastically original and thereby, glorious.
Drama club was something I tried briefly in middle school, and while I did actually enjoy it, I was also completely obsessed with what my friends thought--- and they did not think much of people in drama club. They (my friends, of course) were way too cool to be hanging out with me in the first place, so I figured joining my kindred spirits up on the stage would rock me right off the boat, and into a sea of self-loathing, stage make-up and ill-fitting wigs.
Even though I evaded plays through most of my youth, I still love Hollywood and the idea that these people, their voices and faces and even their mannerisms- will live on.
I love movies. I love actors. I love the words they say, and how they say them, the looks on their face and how some of them are so believable that for a second on screen, you're seeing the person they were always meant to be. It's like they could never be anyone else- until you see their next movie. I love how the right chord can convey sadness, or fear, or total elation. I love that weeks or months, or even years of writes and rewrites and shoots and editing goes into every two hour block of cinema I watch.
I also, kind of sort of, think that they (the people in Hollywood), would love me too. I really think I'd get along swimmingly with the Hollywood set. Not the Paris Hiltons, or anyone on a reality show (because they're not real Hollywood... being famous for being a douche bag isn't the kind of notoriety that I hope to achieve...), but the real celebs.
Whenever I buy a Cosmo (the magazine), one of the first things I read is the celebrity quiz, the one they write out longhand. I'd never thought much about Kristen Bell, but after reading her quiz, I couldn't help but like her - and her ALL CAPS penmanship. I think we'd be friends, should I relocate Los Angeles and bump into her (stalk her) on Robertson Boulevard.
I feel this way about a lot of celebrities. Like Sandra Bullock. If I ever actually knew Sandy, (which is what I'd call her, because, you know, I'd be allowed to, because we'd be BFF and all...) she'd love me. I figure I'd be just about the perfect addition to any celebrity's inner circle. I'm insightful, and quirky- in a cute way. I easily break tension with a joke or amusing quip. I would never sell them out to TMZ or the Enquirer, and I'd always have a pen they could borrow, or gum if they were so inclined.
I'd never falter if they needed me to swallow a balloon full of heroin, and I'm unnaturally gifted at coming up with alibis.
I, essentially, would be the best friend they'd ever have. I'd be everything they needed, and more. I think this way about my celebrity crushes as well. Another break-up, Jake Gyllenhaal? I'll ease your pain. I'm the one you've been waiting for. That Reese, yeah, well, she seems like a nice girl... but really. Do you want riches, personality and gorgeousness? Of course not. You need me.
It seems though, that every time I find a new celebrity to fantasize about, he gets hit with those pesky gay rumors. Wentworth Miller? Dining at Nobu with his main squeeze, Ryan. James Franco? Not confirmed... but all the signs point to gay...
Anderson Cooper? Bought a firehouse to renovate with his boyfriend of a year. Well, great, now I'll never be his wife. I get all depressed, thinking, "What the hell, he's gay?! Damnit! There goes my shot at getting out of this God forsaken town..." As if sexual preference is the one thing that's keeping me from dating, loving and living with Anderson Cooper. Never mind that I've never met (and will probably never meet) the man. Forget that he's almost the same age as my mom. Let's not even think about the fact that he is way out of my league, not to mention an actual Vanderbilt.
When I was younger, I had paper dolls that were made in his family's likeness that my grandparents bought when they visited the Biltmore House. There I was, at the ripe age of six, dressing Anderson's family in frilly frocks and dapper suits. At that time he was in his late twenties, probably out saving orphans in Somalia or being unnaturally wonderful, as usual.
Imagine the stories we could have told our kids! How serendipitous our union would have been, me with my paper dolls and him with his Yale degree and actual intelligence...
But alas, he's gay. Of course he won't love me. He can't.
Such is life.
Hollywood, I've learned, is full of heartbreak. That town will build you up to chew you up to tear you down to lift you back up again, all the while betting on how long until your next coke binge. Just look at Lindsay Lohan.
I've known fame, and I've also felt the cruelty of celebrity lost. Once upon a time, when I was in 5th grade, I was in a little thing called 'OM'. Odyssey of the Mind.
I don't really remember the specifics, because it was a looooong time ago, and I kind of have this problem where I don't actually pay attention to my surroundings- but the gist is this: we built a 15 gram balsa-wood structure, it held 700 pounds, we did a little play, and they sent us to Florida.
I try to be modest about it, but, just to let you know, I was the star of the aforementioned play. At least, I think I was. Again, I could be lying-- but I'm pretty sure I had most of the speaking parts. My character's name was "Madam Quinzo", and I was peddling things, namely balsa wood structures, on an HSN-like channel.
While we usually did our little act in front of a panel of judges, once we found out we were going to Florida, we were invited to perform in front of our school, Ridge View Elementary. After we finished and begged everyone for money, I was wandering the halls, props in hand. I don't know why I wasn't in class, though knowing me, it's not so unusual.
"Hi." A first grader with his arms folded across his chest said to me, darting out of his classroom. "Can I have your autograph?"
I smiled hugely, looking around the hall for witnesses. Curses. There were none. "Sure," I said, walking into the wet area to sign a piece of construction paper. "Who should I make this out to?..."
"Huh?" He asked.
"What's your name?" I shook my head. First graders. Total idiots.
"Colin," he answered, wide eyed. I wrote his name, and then signed mine as messy as I could, turning my nine-letter first name into little more than a squiggle. Lovely, I thought, I was born to be a star- this is the perfect signature. I stared at the paper, wondering what else an autograph should consist of? 'Best of luck' I scribbled on the top, handing the paper back to him.
He shoved it in his pocket and walked back to class without another word to me.
Whilst in Florida for OM, I bought myself an autograph book, procuring the signatures of Chip, Dale and Goofy. Mickey and Minnie were rather elusive, as were all the Disney princesses, so on the airplane ride home I filled out the rest of the pages with my own name, over and over again. I figured practice makes perfect, and I didn't want my hand to cramp up once I was bombarded by all the third grade autograph hounds.
My practice was in vain, as Colin was the last person to ever request my autograph.
Fame is fickle. This I know.
I still practice my signature, just in case. Also, I'm a notary, so I'll charge you $10 and sign loan documents, or adoption papers, or, you know, whatever.
