Nobody wants to hear celebrities complain, because they’re rich and gorgeous and famous and … blah, blah, blah.
I don’t buy it. I’ve never bought it.
Through my years in journalism I’ve interviewed an endless number of famous people and, with rare exception, I’d rather be a festering pile of horse shit than legitimately famous. Why? First, there’s no privacy. Second, everyone wants your time. Third, It’s a vapid world. Fourth, it’s just so incredibly overrated.
Every so often someone will tell my mom they saw me on TV, and she’ll say, “Jeff, you’re so famous.” Which is utterly laughable, considering I’ve been recognized in public a grand total of two times; and because we writers are a dime a dozen. That being said, there is a slight bit of fame that comes with writing books (fame is probably the wrong word), and it’s a level I dig. That brief spotlight time that comes with a new book is fun and exciting and—most important—fleeting. Nobody cares about me or seeks out autographs or anything like that. It’s just fake fame—on TV to whore product, then back into the cave.
Why am I bringing this up? Just read a truly sad story about Cheryl Cole, the beautiful British singer who apparently suffers from depression. Seriously, read this. I hurt for the poor woman.