So, I think I was born with some inability to process hierarchy. Numbers, no way. Numbers are some incomprehensible scribble-language that I can only grasp up to about 101. 101 I can visualize (thank you Disney). Anything above that just doesn't register. There are no soft spots in my heart for 5,234. It doesn't conjure up anything special.
I've learned to ask, "Well, how many cars could I get for that much money?"
I measure values in Hondas.
I guess I evaluate people with the same logic. Not that I compare their qualities and determine the level on which I should respect them based on the commonalities they share with cars, it's just, I don't think I have the ability to distinguish how to treat people according to their status. Well, it's not even that either. I wouldn't go up to the Queen Mum - if by some chance I was near her at a cocktail party or wherever it is the Queen Mum disappears to for fun- and just slap her on the back with a "Yo, Biatch". I know when to be appropriate. My pre-frontal cortex is working just fine, thanks. But, what I don't understand is the phenomenon that is celebrity and people who think they should be treated like celebrities because they have the money or vanity to match.
It's not something I choose to do. I don't purposely treat debutants like shit to make a point. I just, don't get the hint to change my personality to please those of "elevated esteem". Why change who I am just to keep Michael Jackson happy? It's not my fault I don't regularly give Jesus Juice to my pre-teen male groupies - not that I have any. If we don't have much in common and don't click, fine. If it turns out that we're both civil war fanatics and can name all the generals on both sides alphabetically, then hey, that's what makes friendships genuine- connecting mentally and not artificially through sycophantism.
I work for the WNBA (Women's National Basketball Association) and it's not unusual for celebs to stop by and wander about backstage around the locker rooms. Once I was getting some clean towels for the visiting team and was stopped by my co-worker who informed me that I was being "checked out". I put my towels down and followed the direction of her index finger towards a posse of boys who hardly looked like they'd experienced puberty. I noticed they were all in pastel button-up shirts and had horrible huge necklaces, diamonds dripping everywhere. I was reminded of my childhood days when I dressed up my Ken in Barbie's hand-me-down sweaters and gaudy accessories (Ken was a proud metrosexual). I received a wave and pouty lips from the minor in the middle, winks from the other Sesame Streeters.
I turned back to Erica and made a classic "I don't need a reason to be fired" face and went back to the locker room to get some water bottles. Before I was within an inch of the locker room door, I was pounced on by the other girls.
"Camille! Please invite us to your wedding!"
"Camille, did you go talk to him?"
"Are you going to go out after the game?"
I was completely lost. They noticed my upraised eyebrows and all stared at each other in utter shock.
"HOW ARE YOU NOT DYING FROM EXCITEMENT THAT LIL'ROMEO WANTS TO MARRY YOU?"
"Who?!?" I asked and was severely beaten with dirty towels and a couple of basketballs.
I gave my reasons for not wanting to meet the advances of a twelve year old, i.e. jail time and lack of intellectual stimulation, but nothing seemed to be valid enough.
"Lil' Romeo is checking you out, asking to meet you and you're thinking about how old he is? He's famous! You can't say no to Lil' Romeo. His dad is Master P. He'll probably get you your own car!"
When I asked who Master P was, they didn't bother to buffer their hits.
"He's famous, you don't disappoint celebrities, you give them what they want!"
They got real quiet and pinched me, pointing towards a man walking toward us.
"Wuss up Cam, you showing these girls how to get it done?" the man asked me.
"Yeah, just doing my job."
He laughed and led the six men behind him dressed like Mafia bosses, but with fun man-necklaces, toward the Family Room. My co-workers all exploded around me.
"You talked to him! You just talked to Master P!"
"He talked to you!"
"Why didn't you ask for an autograph?"
"Why didn't you freak out?"
"Now will you marry Lil' Romeo?"
I scratched my head and started to raise my arms, already anticipating the oncoming hits. "That was Master P? I was talking to him earlier. I just thought he was someone's dad."
"He is someone's dad you bitch! Lil' Romeo's dad!"
After that night I earned myself a nickname, Future Backup Dancer and Mistress of Rap Legend's Sons, and developed a reputation as the girl who associated with celebrities because she did not recognize who they were or simply didn't realize that they weren't supposed to be treated like ordinary people.
People are people. Frankly, it doesn't impress me if you own a small nation or drive a nice car. I only comprehend Hondas so it really makes no difference. Americans are obsessed with celebrity and I'm still trying to figure out why. So what if David Beckham has a pretty wife and is good at football and is getting paid a ridiculous amount of money, that doesn't mean I should worship him. Is he funny? Does he like Disneyland? Could we talk about dinosaurs? Falsifying yourself just to get others to like you makes no sense. Me, I just have some weird brain abnormality and can't detect when to turn on the flattery...or numbers over 101. What's your excuse?
