By Kevin Lee Associate Editor

“How many thousands nobodies there are whom Fame blows up to importance and authority. Heaven bless the man whose splendid reputation is based on truth; but when it lives by lies, I am not deceived; Fame hides an empty fabric of pretense and luck.”

-Andromache to Menelaus.

Euripides, Andromache 320

It’s no secret; we live in a society obsessed with fame. Not with talent, mind you, or genius, but with pure celebrity for its own sake.

Who elicits more adulation, Britney Spears or the star soprano at the Met? Who garners more attention, Anna Nicole Smith or the first cellist in the London Symphony Orchestra?

You see it everywhere. In the line at the grocery store where racks of tabloids scream with ridiculous headlines about the star of the month. On television where lines of bedazzled fans wait for hours to catch a glimpse of some bedecked actor making their way up a red carpet into an awards presentation.

We observe the fixation on full display in the ways common folks sell their souls for a scant moment of renown, regardless of the price. The belief that a life not recorded on camera isn’t worth living is what drives “Girls Gone Wild” videos and hastens hundreds of rubes into tryouts for reality television shows.

It’s what spurs those too-cute tykes who find endless ways to bring attention to themselves, whether it’s your annoying Cousin Donnie at the family gatherings or the mobs that show up for “American Idol.” boasting of a panoply of talents, a myriad of methods to get anyone to “just look at me.”

It’s merely another facet of the qualitative bankruptcy of pop culture.

And who would want to be famous? Certainly not the observant.

I have a friend who was once one of the biggest football stars in town and let me tell you, being a gridiron great is about as big as it gets around here, unless of course you’re a NASCAR driver, marginally talented soul crooner or champion tobacco spitter. My friend went off to play ball in college to much acclaim. When he came home on weekends, we would sometimes go out to blow off a little steam or maybe catch a good band.

Invariably, when out and about, a scenario unfolded where my buddy would be approached by every warm body with which he once shared a school hallway, all of them feigning interest in him until their eyes took a familiar sheen. The intensity of their body language heightened as they leaned in. The same question always arose: “So, how’s the team going to be this year?”

My friend was gracious and tolerant though the impositions made it abundantly clear the intruders weren’t actually interested in him as a person, but merely wanted to rub up against his celebrity. Were the “fans” actually sympathetic, they would have left him alone with his dignity or wished him well and been on their way rather than gathering like buzzards over a swollen armadillo.

And then there were the drunk yahoos that seemed to desire fisticuffs with someone famous. For them, the scars of unwanted and unwise battle were their mark of worth despite the fact their target stood 6 feet 4 inches and weighed in at 280 pounds.

After a while we learned that when my friend was in town, it was always best to just hang out at home or go to another friend’s house. The other option was to head out to a hole-in-the-wall in the wee hours of the morning.

It was enough to teach me that fame is a burden best avoided if possible.

So who would desire to be famous? It seems to be a desire of the insecure, those who long for external validation and are haunted by childhood traumas or feelings of inadequacy. You know, like politicians.

For many true artists, fame is a side effect, something that happens on the way to self-expression. They want their art to influence people, to move others, and fame is the fickle shadow that follows such.

For some, their greatest talent is self-promotion and the invention of temporal illustriousness, regardless of how it violates our peace.

In due course, what we consider fame is merely transitory. Most celebrities won’t be remembered in a generation. Others will fade away in longer timeframes, but wither they will. Even the playwright quoted above, who lived thousands of years ago, will one day pass from notice as will our civilization, like those before.

And is fame in and of itself an arbiter of talent? Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, regretfully, it’s merely the coarse product of someone’s family connections or sexual wiles or political maneuvering. Most often it’s mere fortuitous consequence.

But the last thing fame is would be a measure of worth.

Ultimately, our influence on the human condition should bear that gravity.

Kevin Lee is Lagniappe associate editor. Contact him at klee@lagniappemobile.com.

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