He's a doll
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The fatal lure of fame
By
Mitzel
Why do I dread opening my e-mail file every morning? When younger, I loved visiting my post-office box nearly every day and scooping up my letter mail. At some point, the joy of
that exercise waned the PO box was stuffed with junk; hunting for a personal letter was like seeking that needle in a haystack.
When e-mail first came along, there was the pleasure of using a new technology. Little did we know. When anyone in the world can dump on you, they do. Think Nigeria. Think
Viagra. Think mortgage vendors. Think stock tipsters. It appears to be a system already nearing unmanageability. Except for the Justice Department, which wants all the records of e-mails
what a ghastly job that must be.
At any rate, this morning I checked my hundreds of new e-mails and there among them was a communication from Jeff Stryker, the noted actor and entrepreneur. (It may seem a
bit jejune at this time to still make jokes at the expense of our President but one of my favorites is this: W was at some international gathering of world leaders. He was mad at the French
at that moment for not signing up for what I think was called The Coalition of The Willing, a phrase perhaps fitting for a Senior Prom theme at a progressive school or, maybe, a title for one
of Mr. Stryker's films. Anyway W is alleged to have whispered to a colleague: "You know, the problem with the French is that they don't have a word for entrepreneur.")
Mr. Stryker had heard from someone that my little bookstore was currently not stocking items from his impressive product line. Just two days earlier, an individual had called and
asked for the Jeff Stryker Doll; due to space limitations in my retail area, I have put doll purchases on the back burner. But I looked through Mr. Stryker's merchandising catalogue, and I am
sure we can do some business. But what I was most pleased with and it must be the giddy little gay boy still somehow tucked away in this seasoned skin was that I had heard from
someone famous.
And he wasn't the only one this week. Author Joe Keenan dropped by for a book signing. I hadn't seen Joe since his last bookshop visit in 1992, when I hosted an event for
Puttin' on the Ritz. It has been 14 years and his new novel is
My Lucky Star. Those in-between years found Keenan in Hollywood, writing and then producing for the hit television series
Frasier. He won a lot of awards for his writing, which is nice, because, in his business, the writer is often considered to be the bottom of the food chain. His production credits may do him better. I don't
know. The entertainment industry for me is terra incognita, though I have always looked at the career of the late Billy Wilder as illustrative. I was pleased to see that Joe, originally from the
Boston area, had gone Hollywood and done well. Others didn't. Paul Monette. Michael McDowell, to name two. But there are more. It can be a consuming place. As can be other venues, I admit,
but those who get the brass ring on that merry-go-round can really cash in and there are the temptations.
Success is one item. Fame is something else. I was speaking with a Northeastern University student yesterday; actually I was eavesdropping (such a wonderful word) on her while
she was chatting with her gay boy chum. They were discussing something of great import to her. "I'm very upset. 'American Idol' and 'America's Top Model' are on at the same time tonight.
I don't know what to do." I wanted to suggest she forego watching the dual TV so-called reality shows and read the Danish philosopher and theologian Sören Aabye Kierkegaard
perhaps Either/Or would be a useful selection.
Why is fame of whatever stripe, the entertainment, the political, the celebrity, even business world so attractive? Why do so many want to chase the flame? When I was young
and foolish, I thought being famous might be interesting. I have watched people who have got famous, even a little famous in Gay World, which is different from the Real Beast, and you
know what? It ain't pretty. But in for a penny, in for a pound, to coin a phrase. I have another group of acquaintances who made it a point to try to stay under the radar, a useful strategy
when you might be able to avoid the glare. These days, when everything is both wired and wireless at the same time, how can you escape notice? Is there some middle ground? Can one be
only slightly famous? Slightly pregnant? For those who seek the flame, what is the investment? What is the penalty? Frances Farmer comes to mind, and she had a hideous entanglement
with the powers that be and finally settled down with her female companion and worked in Indianapolis hosting her own TV show.
But I must get back to Jeff Stryker's urgent e-mail. He is in business as am I, both of us with overlapping product lines. He has carried it well, a quality I admire. I keep my cards
close to my vest, in case someone, I can't imagine who, might peek or grab. The problem with being famous is you have to deal with audiences, a set with hungry mandibles. There must be a
better way to make a living. The rest, as I have often noted before, is just variations of the standard American freak show.
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