by A. J. Jacobs
I bring up the episode about telling the editor from Rachael Ray’s magazine that I tried to look down her shirt, but he sounds disappointed. “Did you tell your wife?” he asks. “That’s the good part.”
I confess I didn’t tell Julie about the cleavage incident, but I did tell my wife that I was bored and didn’t want to hear the end of her story about fixing her computer. Blanton asks how she responded.
“She said, ‘Fuck you.’”
“That’s good!” Blanton says. “I like that. That’s communicating.”
CODA
Here’s my radically honest opinion of my piece on Radical Honesty: I like some parts—especially the outrageous quotes from Blanton. And I think the intro works—though, frankly, I borrowed the idea (okay, swiped it) from Blanton himself. His book has a section called “The Truth About Why I Am Writing This Book,” where he says “I want to become famous. . . . I want to get rich. . . . I want to be like Jesus.”
But overall, my attempts at Radical Honesty could have been more hard-core. If I’d removed my filter in every single situation—instead of 90 percent of the time—I probably would have gotten beaten up, fired, and divorced. Then Blanton could never accuse me of “a superficial dipshit job.” Then again, I might not have lived to write this piece.
I will say this: When you write an essay about Radical Honesty, you’re asking for trouble. This came out in Esquire in 2007. Most of the feedback was positive (that’s the truth), but I also got plenty of e-mails that said I suck. Or more precisely, I “suuuuuck.” And my friends wrote me notes with subject lines like “Try standing up straight once in a while.”
I had to do some apologizing post-piece, as you might imagine. I apologized to the woman whose cleavage I checked out. And to Julie’s parents. And to the poor Esquire intern who transcribed the tapes—not just because of Brad Blanton’s obscenities, but because I forgot to turn off my tape recorder when I went to pee. Three times. Sorry again, Meryl.
I knew I’d have to apologize. Since I’m laying it all out there, I’ll confess that my motive for doing the experiment wasn’t 100 percent pure. There was a devious aspect to Radical Honesty that attracted me. Here was a way to confront people without repercussions. Or with fewer repercussions, anyway. I could defend myself by saying, “Hey, I’m just doing my job, people. It’s the project.” Then say sorry later.
I got to tell my mom that I hate the smoked turkey she serves at her holiday party. I got to tell some old college acquaintances of Julie’s that no, I’m afraid I do not want to have a playdate with them, since I rarely get to see my closest friends.
I still practice Radical Honesty—though only in certain situations. Call it Sustainable Radical Honesty. I’m especially fond of Radical Honesty about my own flaws and mistakes. I love the liberating feeling. No desperate scrambles to come up with excuses. No searching my memory banks to figure out what I told Peter versus Paul. It’s all out there. Yeah, I screwed up.
I’ve also learned my relationships can tolerate a lot more Radical Honesty than I thought. If I just don’t feel up to having lunch with a friend, I don’t say my grandfather’s in town for a special visit and I have to go on the Circle Line. I just say the truth. I don’t feel like it. I’ve got three kids hopped up on high-fructose corn syrup and I need to take a nap.
But Radical Honesty about other people’s flaws—that I can’t do. I’m still a pathological white liar. Blanton thinks it’s false compassion. I think it can be real compassion—especially if your wife asks you about her necklace on the way to the party, long after she can change it.
And after experiments with rationality and civility (see chapters 5 and 6), I’ve come to appreciate the filter between the brain and mouth. Words can be dangerous. Once they’re out in the atmosphere, they can become self-fulfilling prophecies. You say out loud that your wife’s friend is boring, then next time you see her, you perceive her as more boring.
Another confession: Since the article came out, the Radical Honesty concept has seeped out into the culture a bit more—and it kind of annoys me. A minor character on the Fox cop drama Lie to Me is a Radical Honesty practitioner. When I first saw the show, I said, where’s my credit? Where’s my cut? Like I came up with the concept or something. Deluded, greedy bastard I am.
The Radical Honesty meme also caught on with single men, oddly enough. I met a Wall Street banker who said that, after reading the article, he and his friends had started using Radical Honesty as a pickup line. They’d go up to a woman in a bar and say, “I’m trying this new thing called Radical Honesty. And the honest truth is, I find you very attractive and would like to go home with you.”
Nine times out of ten they’d get slapped in the face. But there was that one time . . .
And finally, regardless of what my editor thinks, I’m pretty convinced we’ll all soon live in a radically honest world, for better or worse. It’s going to be hard to keep secrets when every second of your life is Twittered and satellite-photographed and captured by tiny cameras. The truth will out.
Me as Noah Taylor.
Noah Taylor as Noah Taylor.
Chapter Four
240 Minutes of Fame
In my real life, I’ve had just the tiniest taste of what it’s like to be famous. Three instances come to mind:
1. The book festival in Texas where I met my one and only rabid fan—a man who took off his sweater to reveal passages of my book scrawled on his T-shirt in Magic Marker. (Later, Israeli writer Etgar Keret would tell me that one of his fans got a chest tattoo of his book’s cover, which made me feel small and inadequate.)
2. The time my mother-in-law called in a tizzy and said, “You’re a clue in the New York Times crossword puzzle!” This was a dream come true. A bona fide mark of fame.
“It’s forty-eight down,” she said.
I grabbed the Times and opened to the puzzle. The clue was “Reads the encyclopedia from A to Z.”
The answer was N-E-R-D.
Huh. Nerd. I would have preferred my actual name, but it was something. Just to be certain, I e-mailed the crossword editor, Will Shortz—whom I had once met at a crossword puzzle tournament—and asked if maybe I was the nerd in question; he said I wasn’t consciously the inspiration, but that I might have been an unconscious factor. Might have been an unconscious factor. That’s something, right? Good enough for me!
3. And finally, there was the awkward, Borscht Belt-like exchange with a passenger in the New York subway. “What do you know about Q?” he asked me.
Hmm. The Q train. “I think you can catch it on Fifty-seventh and Seventh.”
He paused. “No, the letter Q. What do you know about the letter Q.”
He had seen me on Book TV talking about how I read the encyclopedia, and thought it’d be fun to quiz me about one of the volumes. I was so disoriented, I couldn’t process it. I just don’t get recognized in public.
As for actual fame, that’s about it. I’ve published two books that sold moderately well, but they haven’t made me famous. Not in the real hounded-by-paparazzi sense of the word. On a good day, I’m “somewhat noted in certain quarters.”
But if actual fame has eluded me, I have gotten to experience an odd simulacrum of fame thanks to an immersion experiment. The result was, as they say during Entertainment Tonight interviews— surreal. And it also convinced me that lack of fame can be a good thing. Or so I’ve told myself, anyway.
This experiment was actually one of my first, back in 1997. Early in my career, I worked as a writer for Entertainment Weekly magazine. My job usually consisted of interviewing B-list TV celebrities, writing down the type of salad they were eating, assembling a few quotes, and passing it off as an article.
But not always. There were exceptions. My most memorable assignment came in January 1997. The indie movie Shine had recently been released to an orgy of critical praise. Maybe you remember it? It was based on the true story of Australian pianist David Helfgott, who suffered from schizophrenia.
The adult Helfgott was played brilliantly by a stammering, tic-afflicted Geoffrey Rush. But the younger Helfgott—the post-adolescent Helfgott—was played by an up-and-coming Australian actor named Noah Taylor.
As it turned out, I looked exactly like Noah Taylor. Or at least like his slightly older brother. We had the same thin face, the same gangly body, and the same-sized nose, which in polite circles is called “prominent.”
Even more striking, though, is that Noah Taylor and I shared the same haircut and eyeglasses. For reasons I’m still puzzling out, in my mid-twenties I decided to let my hair grow down to my shoulders. This wasn’t cool long hair, mind you. It was shapeless and stringy, like Ben Franklin or a meth addict. And the glasses? They were thick, black, and clunky. I suppose I was going for a retro intellectual vibe, something in the Allen Ginsberg area. What I got was Orville Redenbacher.
Julie has told me several times that if I’d asked her out during my meth-addicted-popcorn-king era, we would not be married today. She would have told me that she was getting over a relationship and/or life-threatening, still-contagious illness.
The only upside, if you can call it that: my status as Noah Taylor’s doppelganger, whose character sported the same unconventional look. From the first weekend Shine opened, I’d hear it at least once a day: “Hey, you look like the guy from Shine.”
I’d humbly nod my thanks. If I was feeling generous, I’d mime playing some piano keys.
My editors at Entertainment Weekly noticed the resemblance as well, and were determined to exploit it. Turned out the real Noah Taylor was skipping the Academy Awards—the film was nominated, he wasn’t, and he’d decided to stay in Australia. So my bosses came up with a plan: send me to the Oscars under-cover. As a star. “I want to know what it’s like to be a celebrity,” my editor told me. “Do they have a secret handshake? How does it feel to be recognized everywhere you go? Will you feel the urge to open a theme restaurant?” (This was the height of the theme restaurant frenzy, when everyone with a SAG card had his or her own eatery.)
A couple of days before the Oscars, I fly to L.A. I rent a tuxedo, get a limo on the magazine’s dime, and adopt my version of a Melbourne accent—which, unfortunately, sounds exactly like the Lucky Charms leprechaun. It’s the best I can do.
On the big night, the limousine picks me up, inches along the traffic-choked streets, and pulls up to the red carpet at the Shrine Auditorium. I start to open my car door, but the driver stops me. “Wait a minute,” he says. He comes around and opens it for me. Oh yes. Of course.
My forehead is already damp with sweat. I’m worried the ruse won’t work—I don’t carry myself like a star. I’m too slump-shouldered, too self-conscious. But as soon as I step onto the red carpet and wave, hundreds of fans in the nearby bleachers roar.
It’s been thirty seconds of my life as a celebrity impostor and already I’ve experienced more power than I’ve ever had in my life. It’s positively Pavlovian. I move my hand, several hundred people shout. Move it again, they shout some more.
“Shine guy!” they scream. “Hey, Shine guy!” A few actually shout my/his name: “Noah! We love you!”
The red carpet is surprisingly long. It goes straight for a few yards, then makes a right turn and flows a block or two down to the Shrine doors, which are flanked by four enormous Oscar statuettes. The statues look, as essayist Stanley Elkin once wrote, like “sullen art deco Nazis.”
The rope line is jammed with hundreds of journalists and photographers. The drill is the same year after year: The journalists are like dog trainers and the celebrities are a bunch of unruly, uncooperative fox terriers. “Noah! Noah! Over here! Come! C’mon! Sit! Do interview!”
I wave off most of the pleading press with mock humility.
“I don’t want to take away from Geoffrey’s big night,” I shout to MTV’s Chris Connelly. (Geoffrey Rush is nominated for an Oscar—and will go on to win later tonight.)
“But Geoffrey said your performance inspired him!” Chris shouts back from behind the barrier.
“Sorry, mate,” I say.
I finally stop for an interview with a Norwegian TV show. I figure it was an appropriately obscure place to make my media debut.
“What will you do next?” the square-jawed Norseman asks.
“I want to do some big event movie with earthquakes and hurricanes,” I say.
“Thank you. You were wonderful. I wish you luck.”
As I break away from the Norwegian team and continue down the carpet, I hear a roar behind me. Claire Danes has emerged from her limo. All the cameras and microphones swivel toward Claire like a crowd watching Wimbledon. I am last minute’s news. Fame is fleeting.
• • •
Luckily, more positive reinforcement awaits me inside. The lobby of the Shrine looks as though it hasn’t been refurbished since it was built in 1926. It’s got a faux Middle Eastern theme going on—lots of domed doorways and arabesque designs in the ceiling.
But you’re not supposed to be looking at the design. Because there’s Ed Norton! And Tim Robbins! And Joan Allen! I know it’s obvious, but the density of celebrities is stunning and disorienting. This many famous people shouldn’t be clustered in one place like that. It’s not natural. It’s like going to a wedding where you’re the only guest and everyone else is a bride or groom.
I was told by a friend who works in Hollywood that you’re not supposed to sit in your seat. That’s for suckers. The real power players just mill around the lobby, congratulating each other and ordering vodka tonics at the bar.
So I mill around. And am swarmed. The attention is overwhelming. Dozens of people—producers, execs, agents, and seat fillers—jostle to get close to me. “Phenomenal.” “I love you.” “Big fan.” And most common, “Love your work.”
“Love your work” is the standard celebrity greeting. When you meet a widow, you say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” When you meet a celebrity, you tell him how much you love his work, even if you think he’s got the charisma of drywall. As an entertainment reporter, I’d said it many times. Brad Blanton would be appalled.
One man asks if I know that fellow Aussie Paul Hogan is a fan.
“Isn’t that nice?” I reply.
My admirers are outraged I didn’t get nominated. “You were robbed!” says one. I agree, noting that I’ve been so bitter, I’ve trashed eight hotel rooms. “Good for you!” he said.
Usually, though, when I’m praised, I just respond, “Thanks. But I’m no hero. Just doing my job.”
It’s not a joke, really. Just some words to fill the space. But it always elicits an appreciative whoop from the listener. Because when you’re a celebrity, anything that emerges from your mouth that vaguely resembles a joke is cause for gut-busting laughter from everyone within earshot.
I’ve seen this phenomenon from the other side many times. I saw it with alarming clarity when I spent an hour with the most famous person I’ve ever met: Julia Roberts. I met her because, for a few months in the 1990s, I dated one of her many assistants. Rachel worked in Julia’s vanity production company, which didn’t actually produce movies or anything, but which occupied a beautiful loftlike office in Soho. Rachel’s main job, as she’d tell you herself, was to be responsible for the office aquarium. It was home to some lovely tropical fish. And it was probably the most tangible thing the production company had successfully developed. Every few weeks, Julia would announce that she planned to visit the New York office, and Rachel would be sent into a frenzy of Windex-ing and filter cleaning.
Anyway, Rachel was sweet enough to wangle me an invitation to the premier for My Best Friend’s Wedding. I’d be her plus one. Julia Roberts was actually friendly and charming—she gave me her famous smile, shook my hand, told me she loved working with my girlfriend. But the night left me drained and sad. Being around Julia’s posse, especially during the ten-minute limo ride from the office to the premiere, was an exercise in exhausting forced merriment. It was the same vibe as New
Year’s Eve— You will have fun! (said in Colonel Klink accent).
A typical exchange:
Acolyte: “Have you had dinner yet, Julia?”
Julia: “No, I am starving! I could eat a horse!”
We all erupt in laughter. We laugh like the crowd at a Chris Rock concert. Like we all just sucked down a tank of nitrous oxide. Like my two-year-old son laughs when he’s getting tickled on his belly till he’s gasping for air. We look at each other in amazement. Did you hear what she said? Marvelous! Imagine a person eating a horse! The very idea! A horse is so big!
A couple of years later, I interviewed Conan O’Brien for Entertainment Weekly. He was talking about what it’s like to be famous, and he brought up the braying phenomenon. Conan said he actually liked to test the limits of this. Sometimes, he said, he’d be walking through an airport, and someone would shout, “Hey Conan!”
And he’d reply with a string of nonsense syllables—“Squidleedoo!”
And they’d crack up, shaking their heads in wonder at his wit.
So it is with me at the Oscars.
“How are you?”
“Great, mate!” I answer.
I’m bathed in a cascade of laughter.
It’s not just laughter, though. I amplify every emotion. One fortyish producer, with no provocation, takes me aside and tells me about how his father was disappointed he didn’t go into the family business of making linings for sport coats. It is clear he’s tormented by his long-ago decision. But I—Noah—would understand. Because in the movie, Noah’s dad was overbearing. So thanks to a mirage of intimacy, Noah has become this man’s tuxedo-clad confidant. I listen and nod attentively. I tell him his dad must be proud of him. He seems relieved.
I continue squeezing my way through the crowd.
“Noah! Over here! Sign this! Sign this!”
I scribble the crowd-pleasing motto “Shine on!”
By the way, I never actually signed “Noah Taylor.” I didn’t even say “Hello, I’m Noah Taylor.” People just assumed I was him, and I never corrected them. At the time, this somehow seemed more ethical than calling myself “Noah Taylor.” Now I’m not so sure.