Why the hell do I like celebrities?

I rarely feel strong connections to people I do not know. I occasionally do and feel things that are patently absurd (my willingness to anthropomorphize my dog being chief among them) but I typically don’t worry about the feelings of total strangers. Sure, I’ll donate money to charity and toss homeless guys a buck or two, but those guys really need it.

I don’t typically walk into a bank and wonder if the guy ahead of my in line is having a good day or if the woman behind me feels fulfilled. So why do I care about celebrities?

For some inexplicable reason, I worry about the happiness of celebrities. For instance, I am extremely protective of Michael Cera.  This makes absolutely no sense because:

a) Michael Cera is older than I am

b) He certainly does not worry about whether or not I am happy

c) He’s a movie star

Despite all that, whenever I hear people talk about how much he sucks at acting and can only play the one character, I still feel the need to defend. “Come on,” I say. “He’s really funny. He’s a little different in each of his movies. For instance, he was more serious in Juno than in Superbad. Plus, even if he does play one character, he’s pretty good at it. Am I right?”

It’s not that I just have some weird man-crush on Michael Cera. I feel protective of lots of other celebrities, too.

Jennifer Aniston comes to mind. Based on what I  read from the covers of the tabloid magazines near the checkout aisles of  grocery stores, she’s been having a rough go at things lately, what with Brad Pitt being a douche and all. That’s too bad. I feel sorry for her. However, once again, my sympathy makes zero sense when placed in context. Jennifer Aniston is not someone I should feel sorry for. Here’s why:

a) She was on one of the most popular television shows of all time

b) She is so rich she could go on a vacation of indefinite length whenever she feels like it

c) She has a haircut named after her

d) She is incredibly good looking

But, still, I just want to hug her and tell her everything’s okay. And, if in this moment of vulnerability something happens between us, I’d be okay with it.

Don't worry, Rex. I never booed you.

Perhaps my misplaced sympathy is most evident in the sports world. I always wonder if my favorite athletes are content with their place. When a Bear, or Cub, or Bull gets booed in their home stadium, I hope their feelings aren’t hurt. That’s the kind of shit I worry about. I worry about the egos of my favorite athletes. I follow Earl Bennett on Twitter so he can have more followers. That’s messed up.

Towards the end of Rex Grossman’s career as a Chicago Bear, he was getting booed pretty mercilessly. That never sat well with me. Granted, I was never moved enough to actually do anything except get into occasional Facebook wall post arguments about his career.


Me Lay off. He’s trying his best.

But, still, this booing caused me several minutes of consternation each Sunday.

Ultimately, I’m not sure what conclusions, if any, I can draw from this. Perhaps I’m just super sensitive. You hear that ladies? Super sensitive. First come, first serve.*

*Please no fat chicks.


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February 2010
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