I must be missing something, but I simply don’t understand why people are so awestruck by famous people. When I was eight years old, I would have given anything to shake hands with my idol, Carl Furillo, right fielder for the real Dodgers — the Brooklyn Dodgers. But I am no longer a child, and I wouldn’t go out of my way to meet somebody famous today. That’s not entirely true. I would travel to Washington if the president invited me, but for some reason I doubt such an invitation is in the mail.
This preoccupation with fame partially explains why Donald Trump gained frontrunner status. On its face, there is nothing particularly appealing about Trump (that sentence is an exercise in gross understatement). He wears a permanent scowl, takes vanity to a new level and often acts like a two-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. So what is his appeal? He is famous. People feel like they know him since he is so familiar. To be in his presence makes people feel they are somehow important also.
This phenomenon is not limited to America. Recently, I came back from a rejuvenating trip to Cabo, Mexico. One evening at a restaurant, an excited waiter approached me. He mistakenly thought my name was Cross, not Ross. “Are you a relative of Christopher Cross?” he asked expectantly.
“My name is Ross not Cross, and by the way, who is Christopher Cross?” I responded.
The waiter looked crestfallen. I did not want to disappoint this fellow, but neither did I wish to change my identity just to please him. I wondered to myself what in heaven’s name would he have done were I actually related to this Christopher Cross fellow, when the waiter answered the question for me, “If you were a relative of Christopher Cross, I would have asked for your autograph.”
I’ll be damned! Just imagine showing your friends an autograph signed by a relative of a celebrity. It doesn’t get more exciting than that.
This obsession with fame is nothing new, but it seems to have grown over time. My brother Phil recently told me a funny story about when he was a young man many decades ago eating with a friend at a seaside restaurant in Rhode Island. Phil then looked a lot like Alan Arkin, star of the smash movie “The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming,” and so the waitress mistook my brother for Alan Arkin. She kept circling him and staring at him and finally mustered the courage to ask the question. Before the words got out of her mouth, my brother’s friend answered the unasked inquiry, “Yes, he is who you think he is.”
She raced back into the kitchen to share the news with her coworkers, and before long all of them were staring at my brother through the window separating the kitchen from the restaurant. Finally she emerged with a menu and asked Phil if he would be kind enough to autograph it. Phil still remembers her name was Debbie, and he dutifully signed the menu.
On his drive home, my brother slammed on the brakes and came to a complete stop.
“I can’t believe what I wrote her,” he told his friend in disbelief — “Dear Debbie, With warmest wishes from your good friend, Alan Alda.” At least he got the Alan part right, which was probably enough for the young lady.