MiniSky: Thoughts About Everything

Britney Spears public head shaving is symptomatic of something much uglier than her bald pate. The death of Anna Nicole Smith, as tragic as her life turned out to be, is symptomatic of something much more unseemly than the “who’s my daddy” debate and Olympian cable news ratings. It says something else.

Not about them, or Paris, or Lindsay, or whoever the vapid flavor-of-the-week tabloid king or queen is. About us.  Like how we can’t resist gawking when we see a devastating car crash. The twisted wreckage, the drama, the gore; the higher the body count, the more thrilling it is.

It’s true and it’s so so obvious…

Using that as our cultural barometer, why then would anyone anywhere want to be famous? Why would anyone want to become a human spectator sport for the salacious delight of bored fans and in worst cases, disturbed sycophants? 

Native entertainers—particularly those whose profession takes them in front of the camera—are not resistant to this phenomenon although their recognition is nowhere near the level of a Tom and Katie, Brad and Angelina. No matter, the fact that they are ACTORS, PRETTY, and enjoy a relative level of fame is enough to anoint them as CELEBRITIES, and that is where the groupies, hangers-on, toadies, wannabes, and just plain wackos come into play.  

If you’ve ever been so lucky to be anointed as a CELEBRITY, something very interesting happens. You become very popular, even if you never made homecoming queen or touched a football. Your new “friends” care about you. They want to know what you do on weekends. They think anything and everything you say is deep, witty, playful, or hilarious; they laugh at your jokes and cry at your failures and offer to have your baby. 

If they can, they will get close to you—maybe even fashion a career out of being close to you, which is okay since they aren’t fans, glory be, they are…well, your “friend.”  Further, to show their undying loyalty, they will destroy anyone who comes anywhere near you because you belong to them.  

I don’t want to imply anyone who finds a particular actor or actress appealing has entered The Twighlight Zone. Fortunately, the vast majority of fans have a balance that allows them to indulge their cinematic fantasy and walk out of theatre back into the real world.  But there is the dark side to celebrity worship that is creepy, or more ominously, dangerous. 

It was the dark side of celebrity “friendship” that fed Elvis his ultimate fatal excesses. It was the dark side of stardom that contributed to the untimely death of Anna Nicole. Or Marilyn. Or Jim Morrison, John Belushi, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, and Chris Farley. It was the dark side of fame that provided alibis for a duplicitous O.J. Simpson. 

The dark side.  

Unfortunately, it also exists for Native entertainers. These “friends”—wannabes, groupies, toadies, hangers-on and just plain wackos—they are out marching in goose-stepping zealotry, ready to pounce on their perceived rivals while simultaneously devouring the object of their affection and spitting him or her out when there’s no more meat on the bones.  

No, I’m not going to feed the beast by naming names.  

Most of us understand, thankfully, that the beauty of the performing and visual arts is the fantastic journey it takes us on. It’s glorious, it’s awe-inspiring, and it’s illusion. Let us also remind ourselves the steep price some celebs pay for our enjoyment. 

You don’t have to look any further than Britney’s bald head to see why.