Last night, after hearing the Yellowjackets' set at the Sheraton, we stopped in at the Sinclair station ("No Public Restrooms") for a Coke. Guess who walked in behind us? The Great Man himself, Jerry Sloan. Since we just got done with jazz, we didn't know what had happened with The Jazz, so we were both tongue-tied. Even if I had known that the Jazz won, though, I'm not sure I would have said anything. I really like Jerry Sloan on TV--he's one of my favorite basketball characters (Chair of the Curmudgeon Society, hard-ass Originalist, etc.). But he's a little scary in real life, in my opinion. Still shockingly tall, for one thing.
My friend Jen lives in Park City, which is now, and for a little while longer, Celebrity Central, as you all know. She has promised--and delivered--breaking Celebrity Updates ("this just in--Team Aniston has entered the building!"). Maybe some people manage to be nonplussed at the presence of celebrities. I have a friend who has chatted up, over the years, the likes of Robert Palmer, Sandra Bullock, and Anthony Lane, to which I say: My friend, I salute you. I, however, turn into an idiot. I saw David Strathairn at the farmer's market a couple of years ago--I'm not sure why he was at the farmer's market in SLC, but there you go, one of the enigmas of celebrity life--and here was my dignified, cool response: (pointing) "That's a movie star!" Worse, I repeated this remark, and even worse, he heard it. Jeez.
In my writing classes, we're talking about profiles today--a genre that these days often serves the marketing purposes of the entertainment industry. What is it about the famous that is so fascinating? I know how to deconstruct it, but analysis doesn't undo the glamour.