“How’s your mom these days? I was sorry to hear about your dad. Did you and he ever . . . Picture? Oh yes, please. Is there someone who could take it so we’re both in it? Otherwise people won’t believe me when I . . . Oh, would you? Aren’t you sweet! You just press here after you get it all framed right . . . Okay, now, one sec . . . Is there any way you could put your arm around me? You can say no, I just had to . . . Aren’t you sweet? I will never ever forget this day, even without the picture . . . Okay, are we framed in the center? You sure? Okay, hold real still . . . Cheese!”
• • •
the word “autograph” comes to us originally from the Greek autos, “self,” and graphos, “written”: self-written. As it is popularly used, it refers to a famous person’s signature. The hobby of collecting autographs—the practice of hoarding such mementos, which are often wrenched enthusiastically (if not savagely) from the hands of “celebrities”—is known as philography (or occasionally, “unpleasant”).
Some of the more sought-after signers are, in no particular order, presidents, military heroes, sports icons, actors, singers, artists, religious and social leaders, scientists, astronauts, authors, and Kardashians.
So. A keepsake, coaxed or inveigled from a celebrity by someone eagerly radiant, glowing with the recognition of a familiar face. A face as familiar as the closest of friends or family, and yet this familiarity is completely one-sided.
I grew up watching my mother signing autographs, writing her name on smiling photos of herself, or on pieces of blank paper hopefully held out to her by the outstretched arms of strangers who loved her. Her fans. The Oxford English Dictionary says the word “fan” derives, quite apparently, from the word “fanatic,” which means “marked by excessive enthusiasm and often intense uncritical devotion.”
The entirety of what Debbie Reynolds knew of her fans is that they seriously appreciated her talents. They invested tiny pieces of their souls in her. When my father dumped her for Elizabeth Taylor, leaving her squirming sadly in the world’s spotlight with two bewildered toddlers, they shared her pain.
That sort of familiarity bred quite the opposite of contempt, though something equally charged. In a way she belonged to the world, and while most of the portion of it that appreciated her was content to do so at a distance, the true fans seemed to want to assert a kind of ownership by coyly requesting, or pitifully pleading, or aggressively demanding, that she provide them with their coveted token, proof to all and for all time, in the pre-selfie era, of an encounter! An up-close brush with one of the cinematically anointed!
I would stand loyally at my mother’s side, watching as these memento-seeking well-wishers (MSW2s) gushed and giggled in her presence. From just outside her dazzle of limelight, I watched as she scribbled her lovely signature on the pictures, records, and magazines—many of their covers blaring “news” of the scandal she’d been subjected to—that were sometimes desperately held out to her.
“And what’s your name? Oh, what a lovely name! So unusual! Do you spell it with a ‘y’ or an ‘ie’?” “I had an Aunt Betty once. I loved her very much.” “Yes, but only if you take the picture very quickly. As you can see, I’m with my daughter . . .”
“Your daughter?!!” these devotees would exclaim, briefly wrenching their eyes toward me. “That’s right! You have a daughter! Oh, my goodness, I didn’t realize she’d gotten so big, and a beauty like her mama!”
I’d frown and look away. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was there as an observer, not the observed. A witness to the world’s mysteries. The archaeologist, not the pit. I’d blush and tuck my chin toward my chest as the focus abruptly shifted to me, caught off guard, in the act.
“Isn’t she precious?”
• • •
i can’t remember exactly when I started referring to signing autographs for money as a celebrity lap dance, but I’m sure it didn’t take me long to come up with it. It’s lap dancing without cash being placed in any underwear, and there’s no pole—or is the pole represented by the pen?
It is certainly a higher form of prostitution: the exchange of a signature for money, as opposed to a dance or a grind. Instead of stripping off clothes, the celebrity removes the distance created by film or stage. Both traffic in intimacy.
For many years I, like so many other high-minded celebrities with flourishing careers, could afford to cavalierly wave away any and all arguably undignified appearance offers that, accompanied by a financial enticement, could only be experienced by those engaging in said ignoble acts as, for want of a better word, whoring.
To be sure, it is “selling out,” which comes with feelings of embarrassment and shame. But if you’re selling for high enough numbers, the duration of that humiliation has a more fleeting quality. And the distraction of purchasing the odd luxury item, or—saints preserve us—paying bills, made the sense of shame similar to the embarrassment one feels about a weight gain of a fairly manageable variety.
And then, what is a loss of self-respect when placed in the context of diminishing worry about one’s looming tax bill or monstrous overhead? So, over time I have managed to rejigger my definition of dignity to the point where it comfortably includes lap dancing.
It’s just something that had to be gotten used to—like finding out your older sister is actually your mother, or winning the lottery but only being able to spend the money on Christmas Day. Hardly a hardship—it simply took some form of adaptation. With enough time, anything can be adjusted to, though things like torture would require adjustment of a kind I can scarcely imagine. But accustoming myself to scrawling my name for strangers was certainly within my capacities.
Besides, over time, more and more celebrities have lent their overly familiar names and faces to products of all kinds—from cars to cosmetics to soda, and on into that netherworld just beyond yogurt. Nothing in the ever-evolving world of celebrity endorsement was impossible. So, why should I be ashamed of spending days on end signing eight-by-ten photos of myself, or even signing the flesh of another human who would subsequently get that signature tattooed onto their skin for all time? Why should that embarrass me more than Julia Roberts or Brad Pitt endorsing some high-end perfume that everyone knows they’re not wearing, or Penélope Cruz appearing in a commercial swooning over cappuccino?
Well, there are reasons, the biggest one being that getting seventy dollars per signature doesn’t really compare to the millions the likes of Mr. Pitt or Ms. Roberts receive for a photo shoot lasting a few hours. The difference might be compared to turning tricks in the East Village versus giving a hand job to an appreciative duke or duchess.
When I was initially approached about going to Comic-Con, the giant comic book convention, I said, “I wouldn’t be caught dead at one of those has-been roundups.” But, as it turns out, I’ve been caught alive at those roundups often enough to wish I was dead.
“I don’t like to make a practice of it, but just this once, okay, I’ll sign it Princess Leia. But you do know I’m not actually her, right? I might resemble this character that doesn’t really exist offscreen and in human form—well, maybe I don’t resemble her quite as much as I used to, but for a while there I looked almost exactly like her.”
“Could you make it to Zillondah? That’s two Ls, an O before the N, and A-H at the end. One of the Ls is silent.”
• • •
come on, get the fuck over yourself,” I can hear you saying. “You wanted to be in show business. Deal with it!”
But I didn’t! It’s just that it turned out to be a lot harder to stay out of the famous fray than to enter it.
Perpetual celebrity—the kind where any mention of you will interest a significant percentage of the public until the day you die, even if that day comes decades after your last real contribution to the culture—is exceedingly rare, reserved for the likes of Muhammad Ali.
Most celebrities have the ordinary
variety, in which lengthening periods of quiet alternate with brief flare-ups of activity that steadily diminish in intensity and frequency until the starlight fades away entirely, ultimately extinguished, at which point there’s that final blaze of nostalgia that marks the passing of the now-lost icon.
So I knew. I knew that what lies ahead for almost every public figure who arrives on the scene lay ahead for me as well: the attempted comeback, the memoir, the stint(s) in rehab (although the option of lingering on in some reality show lineup didn’t exist yet in the late seventies). I knew that this was just the nature of this unnatural business—that there, but for the bad fortune of someone else in stardom, would go me. I just hadn’t come up with a viable alternative, so when my place in the sun presented itself, I didn’t have the nerve to turn it down. And this wasn’t just a gift horse, it was a gift stampede!
But, as inevitable as it is, you know some people think it will last forever. That beautiful actress over there, a bright young star from a newly successful franchise, beaming happily, or wait, maybe not so happily.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have time to personalize,” she tells the thrilled fan holding out a picture of her in a bikini, lying on a beach under a tropical sun.
The fan’s brow furrows. “But I’ve been waiting for almost two hours,” he pleads. “Couldn’t you just—”
“NO!” she snaps, indicating the long line snaking behind him. “They’ve been waiting just as long as you!” She’s fed up at all these eager devotees crowding her. “One of them stepped on my foot! See?!!” The beautiful actress frowns, indicating a little red mark on her ankle. “Oww,” she adds for emphasis. “How much longer do I have to stay?” she asks her handler, her eyes stormy.
The handler leans down to her nervously, his head covered in sweat. “We’ve cut the line at the east entrance. All you have to do is sign for those who got in before the cut. It shouldn’t take you that long. Can I get you a water? Or a snack or something?”
The beautiful actress rolls her eyes impatiently. “Christ,” she mumbles under her fragrant breath, “get me some fries then. Or an apple crepe.”
Her handler breathes a sigh of relief. “You got it! No worries, I’ll be back in a second.” The beautiful actress smirks, shakes her head moodily, and turns back to the nervously waiting fan. She blinks at him.
“Didn’t I sign your thing already?” she barks, frightening him speechless. “Well, didn’t I?”
Wry and resigned, her older counterparts watch from behind their photo-laden tables in this cavernous convention center, armed only with their pens and their stoic grins, on the dark sides of their once bright, shining stars, their focus-pulling days all but over, not to mention their days in general—there’s Bill Shatner!
Spending much less time signing than waiting to oblige the next long-lost fan in search of a nostalgic signature. Signing photos taken when they were still certain it all lay ahead, their brilliant multicolored futures, populated with throngs of admirers who clung to their every motion, hung on their every word. The staring world barely blinked then. Now it dozes.
Such is the fate that awaits all celebrities, poor dears. Waiting for an audience either no longer living or barely interested, making every effort to seem upbeat as they await the day when their fans will return to them, their current indifference having been merely a result of some temporary misunderstanding soon to be resolved.
Until then, all they have to do is pretend it’s not really happening.
• • •
no, I’m sorry, I can’t do it that weekend. I’ve got a lap dance in San Diego.”
It was such an obvious metaphor to me—metaphor be with you!—that it was easy to forget that it wasn’t an accepted designation in the common vernacular. Sure, my friends and family got the reference, but all too often I’d forget that I wasn’t sufficiently acquainted with someone who’d only very recently wandered into the eccentric entrance hall of my life. Such as, for example, some place of business where, confronted with the price tag of an overpriced item, I’d say, “Shit, I can’t afford that until after my lap dance next month.”
I’d continue along breezily for a sentence or two until I’d notice the look of astonishment on the high-end shop assistant’s face. “Sorry, sorry,” I’d explain. “I don’t mean an actual lap dance, though it might as well be. It’s this thing where I sign stuff for cash that is all but stuffed into my underwear and—oh, never mind, it doesn’t—could you hold this for me for a few weeks?”
It’s fair to conclude that my lap dancing was required penance for my fondness for shopping—either for gifts for my friends and mere acquaintances, or for yet another amusing antique hand or eye or foot, some gnome, some video art, some British phone booth for my witty and colorful home. (I have the mixed blessing of being able to find the often obscurely hidden charm in many arguable objets d’art, not to mention animals and humans.)
If I didn’t simply have to have things—and to make a donation to this cause, or a loan (inadvertently but inevitably a gift) to that person—I might not have needed to clamor to this city or that country to do the odd speech or the odder-still autograph show.
I was decidedly on the wrong side of forty when, as the new millennium dawned, I was first approached by Ben Stevens (with Official Pix) to see if I would consider doing “a signing.” My nose wrinkled involuntarily with distaste. Don’t you have to be desperate to do something like sitting behind some table piled high with pics and pens and . . . would there be merch, even?!!
Ben smiled compassionately. “There’s no merchandising,” he said emphatically, as if to assure me that this lack of obvious commerce would keep my dignity intact. “Just signing pictures, and if you wanted to make a little extra moolah, you could take a few photos with the fans. No more than fifty, unless you wanted to do more. Mainly, though, me and my staff would be there to make sure things go smoothly and quickly and, of course, that you make as much money as possible.”
How did I get here? I didn’t need money this badly, did I? Well, that all depends on your definition of “need.” Was I as rich as most of the media-saturated public assumed that I was, given that I was associated with one of the biggest moneymaking phenomena in the life of the nation? Not by a long, long, long shot. Holding out for points or a piece of the merchandising was not an option for—or even something that would ever have occurred to—a nineteen-year-old signing on for her first lead role in a little space movie.
To be sure, though, I had a considerable amount of money in my early twenties. Wow! Then I didn’t have to think about such things. I could pay someone to make sure my bills were paid and my money was locked up tight and under no immediate threat of theft. Great! My attitude was, “You take care of it! Just make sure that I can shop and travel as much as possible. I’m no good with numbers, so you count while I cavort!” Carefree!
That went well.
Two decades and a pilfering business manager later, I was out of money. My house—or, more accurately, the house the bank lets me live in, for now—was mortgaged to the skies, and not, as it turned out, friendly ones.
I had become a poor rich person. Cavorting in the style I had unfortunately become accustomed to now required real work. I took jobs writing travel pieces for magazines so I could circle the globe, my young daughter in tow.
When Billie was four or five, I made personal appearances at every Disneyland on the planet. (All she knew was that we didn’t have to stand in lines and got to go on the Matterhorn three times and have lunch with Dumbo!) So, while I might not yet have lost my convention virginity when Ben Stevens came a-calling, I was far from an innocent in the ways of selling myself, or at least my-Leia-self.
Your once upon a time is up
Prince Charming’s been abducted
Tinkerbell’s on angel dust
The Matterhorn’s erupted
Your once upon a time is up<
br />
Tammy’s talking dirty,
Dumbo has a PhD
Leia’s age is 2 x 30
• • •
there we are in the huge, almost football-field-sized convention center. Many of us, side by side at long tables in front of longer swaths of blue fabric—curtains of blue separating the celebrities from . . . what? From round tables piled high with different sorts and sizes of photographs.
We have gone on—aged, and in some cases (like my own) waists have thickened a bit—but the images have not changed. In the photos we are stopped in our tracks, usually in a scene from a past film, caught for all time smiling or swooning, gazing or considering. And just beneath that momentary expression—that split second out of all the years of our lives—a signature will, for a nominal or near-nominal fee, be scrawled. That souvenir, now yours forever, captures two instants: the long-ago one when the photo was taken, and the more recent one when that signature was written just for you—you or some lucky friend or relative whose life you’ve generously chosen to enhance in this way. Two moments, decades apart, now joined forever.
We sit in various stages of poised, awaiting our next appointment to exchange autograph for cash—yes, actual paper money, the kind that they’re promising to put a picture of a woman on one of these years. That cash entitles people to choose what color ink should be used—the table is festooned with a rainbow of available pens—and which character’s name they might also want inscribed below the actor’s signature. Oh, and perhaps also a key line of dialogue spoken by said character?
Finally, and for many most importantly, the ability to carve out a uniquely personal exchange between the lap dancer and lap dancee, something so easily documented in the smartphone era. At the very least a selfie, but even better a video of your idol engaging you—you!—in actual conversation. A digital keepsake that you will be able to carry with you and show off—to those, one hopes, who will share your enthusiasm rather than react with an air of endurance—until the end of time, or at least until such time as you lose the phone that you foolishly neglected to back up the contents of and realize that you have lost not only your phone but also proof of your contact with stardom.
The Princess Diarist Page 12