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She'd Rather Be Rich, Not Famous

By Gloria Diaz

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Fort Wayne Reader

2014-05-06

Every time I think I want to be famous, I think of Miley Cyrus. Or Lindsay Lohan. Or Kirstie Alley. Now mind you, I wouldn't mind being rich. But the fame part could get a little embarrassing.

I'm sort of a Grade-D celebrity here in Fort Wayne. Occasionally, I get someone who asks me, “you write that column in the paper, right?” Well, no, it's not “the paper,” it's the Fort Wayne Reader. Get it right, for God's sake. Anyway, being low on the celebrity-ometer means no one cares that I wipe my ass with six-rolls-for-a-buck toilet paper. But if I were famous, Oh. My. God. The tabloids would go on and on about how cheap I am, about toilet paper, at least. Every time I stepped out to Red Lobster, some paparazzi would snap a picture of me stuffing my face with those great cheddar bay rolls, shrimp, and steak. When I hit the pool, no doubt there would be pictures of my cellulite-packed thighs and my belly splashed on the cover of the Enquirer. Those embarrasing times when my undies crawl up my crack and I try to discreetly pull them out? Bam! All over “the papers.”

I actually like the way Kirstie Alley looks. If I could look like her when I'm sixty-something, I wouldn't be too unhappy. But I'll be honest: I would rather not weigh over 200 pounds. Even at my heaviest, I've never hit the 200-pound mark and hope never to.

But Lindsay Lohan. What a mess. Recently she said she'd had a miscarriage, which is why she missed some filming days of her reality show. Everyone knows about her substance abuse problems, and that's bad enough. Addictions of any sort can be crippling. Some are life-threatening. And some people think of addictions as a sort of weakness. She's someone who has been working since the age of three; maybe people could be a little more understanding as to why Lohan is such a mess. I feel bad for her. Perhaps she could go into hiding for a while and get herself together. But since there's supposedly no such thing as “bad publicity,” one wonders if celebrities intentionally do the things they do just to get attention. Maybe sometimes they do.

And Miley Cyrus. Justin Bieber's evil twin sister is just punishment for her father, Billy Ray, who unleashed “Achy Breaky Heart” some twenty-two years ago, or so, and recently recorded a rap version of it. Yes, you heard that right. Larry King starts off the video with a report of an unidentified flying object. Then, there's a shot of Cyrus and some kid walking along a road a la the intro to The Andy Griffith Show. I half expect them to start whistling the theme song, except they're beamed up into a space ship. The little kid ages within seconds to become Buck 22, and Cyrus, for some reason, stays the same age. The little kid comes back to do a few country dance steps, which is bizarre. Is this a miniature version of Buck 22? Add a few half-naked women twerking their half-naked butts, and you have a cringe-worthy video. Daddy Cyrus isn't quite as embarrassing as Daughter Cyrus, but damn, with that video and song, he's coming awfully close. Supposedly, she was in the hospital for being allergic to antibiotics (wink, wink). And her U.S. tour has been postponed. Hopefully, she'll be back on stage dressed as a pot leaf and sticking out her tongue soon.

As for me, if I were rich, I suppose I wouldn't have to use my bathwater to water my garden without incurring huge City Utilities bills. I could afford to buy CDs, instead of borrowing Pet Sounds and Adele's 21 from the library and ripping them onto my computer. Excursions to Target could be sky's the limit. I could afford to buy brand-new Ralph Lauren clothing. But if I were rich AND famous, my every purchase would be scrutinized. Bad hair days would be publicized. If I decided to wear sweats and no makeup, I'd probably make the “Celebrities Without Makeup” issue of Star magazine. My bunion on my right big toe would be subject to speculation. In short, all my imperfections would be photographed and commented on. I'd like to think I'd be rich enough to not care, but I know myself better. I'll take rich over rich AND famous, but I also know that's not going to happen either.

Unless, of course, I buy enough lottery tickets, which of course would be a no no if I got famous. “What does she need those for?” I can hear people saying. “Isn't she rich enough?” Well, no. Everyone knows you can't ever be too rich or too thin (unless you accidentally starve yourself to death) and if I did buy a bunch of those scratch-offs, I'd take them home, pull down the shades and madly rub a quarter over them, in hopes of effortless money. I'd like to think I have enough class to do that sort of thing in private.