“Love of fame is the last thing even the wise give up” – Publius Cornelius Tacitus (circa 100 A.D.)
This past week, our national media was distracted from the pressing issues of war, terrorism and a flagging economy…to follow a bright shiny balloon darting across the skies in Colorado. A child was reportedly trapped inside.
More horrific than the thought the lad may have fallen out was the vision of found child throwing up on national television from the apparent stress of being made accomplice in a lavish hoax.
The motive? A few more minutes in the spotlight. The parents hour of stardom in the “reality” television program Wife Swap, was apparently not enough.
What motivates the need for celebrity status?
The answer is simple. We have a deep need to have attention paid to us.
Look no further than an attention seeking two year old. My granddaughter throws down famously when ignored.
I’m convinced our so-called maturity means we’ve only managed to conceal our tantrums by turning them inward. For some, this may manifest as anger; for others, a world of fantasy.
A striking look at the insatiable lust for fame can be found in the 1982 film by Martin Scorsese, “King of Comedy”
The film revolves around the central character played by Robert DeNiro, Rupert Pupkin. Through his rich fantasy life, he spends his evenings with life sized celebrity cardboard cutouts in a make shift talk show set arranged in his mother’s basement. In Rupert’s fantasy world, he is the toast of late night television. By day, his life is spent fixated on the late night Johnny Carson style talk show host Jerry Langford (played by Jerry Lewis). He stalks Mr. Langford outside his office in downtown Manhattan.
After being treated like a parasitic flea by Jerry’s staff, he manages to kidnap Mr. Langford and hold him hostage in return for the “star treatment.” He succeeds in getting the opportunity he’s dreamed of: performing the late night opening monologue. The conclusion of his routine sums it all up, “I figure it this way. Better to be king for a night than schmuck for a lifetime.”
The fact is, the world tends to treat the non-famous as schmucks.
Given this reality, I’ve recently resolved to do something unique. I’m determined to treat people as though they truly are somebody.
I’m not talking superficial here; I mean I am really practicing the art of active listening. Note I use the word practicing, because after a lifetime of total self-absorption, I’m still not very good at it.
At first, my motivation was strictly selfish. I figured that if I spend the first part of a conversation totally focused on the other person, eventually the other person will reciprocate. Except for a few true friends, they generally don’t.
The experience of being in the company of someone who is genuinely interested in what you have to say must be rare for us “schmucks.” I remember a professional counselor, who once told me he often heard the comment from clients that went something like, “It’s sad the only people who really listen to me do so because they are paid to.”
Active listening is the most practical opportunity to “treat others as I would like to be treated.” I am committed to really digging down deep to discover what others are thinking. I suspect this is the best way to connect with people. As with most discoveries I make, my wife already knew this. During our courtship I was amazed at her continuous line of probing questions. Yes, she made me feel like a king.
The English actor Michael Wilding once said, ““You can pick out actors by the glazed look that comes into their eyes when the conversation wanders away from themselves.” In fairness I’ve found that to be true of actors, musicians, directors, producers and most anyone consumed with their own thoughts.
Unfortunately, the quest for fame demands more than one person who actually listens, but that an entire nation become transfixed. So we should not find it surprising that if one person is challenged to remain engaged, how much more elusive is the constant attention of a larger audience. The price of such attention is so high. There is security in obscurity. At least we schmucks aren’t literally hounded to death by Paparazzi.
As the memory of Michael Jackson should impress upon us, ““Indeed, wretched the man whose fame makes his misfortunes famous.”
