FAME! I’m gonna blog forever…or at least until someone discovers my innate talent and gives me lots of money, at which point I’ll pay someone to do it for me

This weekend’s task is to write up a substantial essay for university (so, of course, I’m blogging about it instead).  The subject is how new media (e.g. social networking sites, blogs) has affected the marketing of celebrities and the interaction between celebs and their fans.  Specifically, I’m looking at how Wil Wheaton’s career was revived through his writing (mainly on his blog, WIL WHEATON dot NET).

Things are changing, but in the past, academics have taken the view that everything about a celebrity’s image is manufactured and fake.  Our (the fans) relationships with them are therefore fake, and any emotional connection we may feel is therefore nothing short of pathological.  We’re an inch away from going full John Hinckley Jr. 

If you’ve ever read this blog you’ll have gathered that I don’t completely share that view, but it makes for an interesting discussion.  In fact, yesterday we had a formal debate in class about whether or not celebrities are the ‘ultimate construction of false value’.  Leaving aside my hatred for debates (I enjoy public speaking, but DO NOT make me think on my feet or speak without time for written preparation.  DO NOT.  And get that telephone away from me), it was interesting to see how passionate people became about the subject (and about One Direction).

One question continually asked in the literature about celebrities is, ‘Why we are still fascinated by them if we believe that their images are manufactured?  What’s the appeal?’  The answer seems like a no-brainer for me, but not one out of the stack of books I’ve read for this essay mentions it, so maybe I’m wrong.

Leaving aside the question of whether or not they are all ‘manufactured’ (highly unlikely), it seems to me that celebrity culture works the same way as a TV show or a movie franchise.  We pick our favourite character – one who is funny, or who we see something of ourselves in, or who we want to be like – and we follow their story.  We tune in to find out what happens next.  Does the former child star get hooked on drugs and run his car into a tree?  Can he get unhooked and go on to win an Oscar?  Does the squeaky-clean girl decide to do the movie with the nude scenes?  Can America’s sweetheart get the husband and the kids she’s always wanted?  Will the cheater’s new love manage to reform him, or does he prove to be the leopard that can’t change its spots?

Just like our favourite TV characters, we also like to know personal things about them.  Does Kate Moss eat chocolate or does she exist on carrots?  Does Justin Bieber ever wear clothes properly?  How many reps does Chris Hemsworth need to do to get those guns?  Does Jennifer Lawrence trip over every day, or only at awards ceremonies?  We want to go through the Stargate and find out about the planet on the other side.*

The one thing that does get mentioned a lot in the literature is the desire to see celebs as ‘normal’, ‘down-to-earth’ and ‘ordinary underneath’.  We want to think they’re really just like us, because that would mean that we can be like them.  Of course people want to be famous.  We don’t want to be sitting at home alone on a Saturday night or pen-pushing (mouse-pushing?) or grave-digging or burger-flipping or dealing with difficult bosses or trying to help clients when we don’t know what we’re doing or wearing uncomfortable polyester work shirts with name tags on them or writing stupid self-appraisals when our job’s so boring we could do it in our sleep.  We want to be relaxing on a yacht, reading our next script, or pottering around a log cabin overlooking a lake and writing our next best-seller, or eating pizza in Abbey Road Studios with a bunch of fascinating people who are playing on our next album. 

Or…is that just me?  Am I normal?  Maybe if I find out that that highly successful, rich, intelligent celebrity also burns his toast and can't get a date, I’ll know that I’m going to be OK.

*Spoiler: it probably looks like Canada.

The Old Fart on Campus

Going to university after the age of 30 has sent me on a huge learning curve, and not just in relation to academia.  There are days when I feel very old.

I had a naïve understanding that university seminars (especially for a Bachelor of Arts) would be deep and varied discussions with like-minded people or, if not like-minded, then at least like-interested.  I would meet fascinating people who shared my passions and I would talk with them about all those things no-one else ever wanted to talk with me about.  We’d play music and watch movies together. 

Oh, boy, was I wrong.

Not only do I often feel a gazillion years old, sitting with a bunch of people in their late teens (and some who are, I swear, about twelve), but I also feel like a member of an alien species.

I have come to realise over the years that my school was an exceptional one in many ways.  Kids didn’t pull you down if you did well – quite the opposite, most of the time.  We frequently had lively discussions in class (especially with one teacher, who was very easy to sidetrack with questions about aliens).  Talking while a teacher was talking was a no-no, and you would never have gotten away with irritating the people around you by disrespectfully talking through an entire lecture.  Students had at least a basic understanding of what I’ve realised in this country are tricky subjects – spelling and grammar.  We could all, at least, string a grammatically correct sentence together.  Not so with many of my fellow undergraduates.

I realise I sound like a typical member of the older generation lamenting the habits of the younger, but (a) I’m not all that old; and (b) I’m sure there really is something odd going on here.

Where’s the enthusiasm?  At first I thought people were shy to speak up in seminars and workshops, but after a year and half, they still aren’t talking.  Tutors’ questions are, 99% of the time, answered by crickets.  After a fortnight, I got sick of the sound of my own voice answering out of pity.  The thing that strikes me over and over again is that these students don’t seem particularly interested in their subject.  Brits are difficult to get excited at the best of times (unless it’s about soccer – er, pardon me – football or Coronation Street), but this is ridiculous.  Why are you wasting thousands of pounds half-heartedly studying something you’re not very interested in, I ask?  Are other universities’ students the same way?  Is this a cultural difference?  A generational difference?  A class difference?

I got overly excited this week when I noticed a student was wearing a Star Wars t-shirt.  You would think this kind of thing would be common on campus, but I assure you it isn’t – not even among my fellow Media students (this girl was an English student).  It’s rare to even see an unusual haircut or colour.  Perhaps living in London warped my expectations in this regard.  I need to head back to Camden to feel mildly normal.

I love being a student and having a whole library to get lost in, and I’ve made a small group of great friends (people that actually, you know, read), but I confess I am absolutely bewildered by the culture...or lack of it.  

Tell me in the comments below what your school/university experiences were or are.  I’d love to know if I’m alone in this.

Issue 16 - Confessions of a Hugaholic

Hello, my name is Muse, and I'm a hugaholic.

I'm not sure if there's a twelve-step programme for this, or whether I'd even want to go through it, if one existed. I absolutely, unashamedly LOVE hugs.

I'll never understand people who don't like them. A hug is a powerful thing. A good hug releases endorphins and gives you energy. It can communicate so many things without words: joy, sorrow, empathy, security, respect, pain, comfort...the list goes on. It can say, “I'm so happy to see you”, “I'm sorry for your loss”, “I understand”, “Congratulations”, or, “You're a legend and I'm really glad you're my friend.” Amazing, really.

Of course, there are different types of hugs, and not all of them satisfactory. Churches, schools and music/dance/theatre groups are brilliant research environments for hugging. Over the years I have become a keen student of the subject.

Technique is extremely important and can even change the meaning of a hug, conveying a completely different message to the hugee than was intended.

Here are some examples I've compiled:

The Wimpy
They're not sure if they really want to hug you so they'll just give you the hug-equivalent of a limp handshake. Arms are held up at half-mast and bent at the elbows and wrists, to resemble a t-rex or a kangaroo. Lots of arm patting is involved.

Mind The Gap
They'll willingly hug you, but they'll keep an all-important 3-inch gap between your bodies. Don't breach it, whatever you do.

The Drama Queen
This is not so much a hug as a staged lean, accompanied by air kisses in the direction of both cheeks. Usually performed by teenage girls who can't stand each other.

The Youth Pastor
If you're a youth pastor, you apparently can't come at someone full-frontal, especially someone of the opposite sex, so you perform a manoeuvre that is otherwise known as the “side hug”. It's one-armed, awkward and, quite frankly, a bit silly.

The Tub-Thumper
This is performed by guys who feel they must footnote an all-male hug with three thumps on the back that quite clearly state “I'm. Not. Gay.”

The Bake 'n' Shake
This occurs when one hugger is taller or bigger than the other. It involves exuberantly pinning the smaller party's arms to their sides, picking them up and rocking backwards and forwards several times while their feet are still off the floor. May be used in lieu of The Tub-Thumper.

The Choker
Sometimes accompanied by squealing; given by bubbly girls who have haven't seen you for– oh, at least three hours.

The Footballer
Found only on a sports field, where all the usual rules of male bonding go out the window. Incorporates elements of The Bake 'n' Shake. Usually followed by hair-ruffling. May involve butt-slapping. Variation: The Chest Bump.

The 4-bit
*hugs*

The Teddy Bear
My personal favourite. It's the kind of hug that occurs between true friends and is suitable for almost any occasion (although, truthfully, it's best given by guys who consider themselves your mates and aren't afraid to show it). It's both gentle and strong. It's the kind of hug that makes you feel safe and loved and happy. In a nutshell, it says, “You're my friend, and you're all right.”

PRO-TIP: Whatever type of hug you give, make sure it's sincere. The Wimpy must be eradicated.

Special thanks to O.R. and L.C. for their valuable contributions to this issue.

Issue 15 - I Do, Do I?

I've never really understood weddings. I always say to friends, “Screw the wedding crap; I'm going to Vegas.” They think I'm joking. I'm not.

It could be hereditary – my parents didn't have a “normal” wedding – or it could be my disposition to buck tradition at every opportunity. More likely it's that I've become jaded. To be clear, I don't mean jaded by the idea of marriage – that, I love; I mean jaded by the idea of the white wedding: the bouquets, the tuxedos, the bridal showers, the matching dresses, the rehearsal dinners, the music, the invitation lists, the seating plans, the unwanted guests, the tension, the competitiveness...

I can hear you now: “Oh, she's just bitter – three times the bridesmaid, never the bride. Wait 'til her turn comes around; she'll think differently.”

Maybe.

But probably not.

I grew up in a large church. Most of my friends are married. I have seen hundreds of weddings, and the more I see, the less it all appeals.

There are certain elements, of course: the dress; the fulfilment of every girl's fantasy to be stunningly beautiful, the princess, the centre of attention, if only for one day; publicly marking and celebrating the transition to a new phase of life; that particular sort of magic as the bride walks down the aisle to meet her beloved – I get these. I do. But what, in the name of common sense, do sugar-coated almonds in lilac drawstring bags, ridiculously overpriced stationery, rice enough to feed a third-world country and oodles of glazed marzipan have to do with anything? I mean, at least ice the cake with something that people can appreciably palate. And don't go for that disgusting fruit cake that looks as though it's been sitting at the bottom of a rum barrel for twenty years. If you're going to make us sit through four hours of speeches consisting of meaningless reminisces and inside jokes, have the decency to give us a large slice of chocolate mud cake with proper frosting.

Another thing: why do all the bridesmaids have to wear exactly the same gowns? Isn't that the first crime of fashion – wearing the same thing as someone else? I was a ballerina. As far as I'm concerned, matching costumes are for the corps de ballet. Whenever I see a line of bridesmaids all dressed exactly the same (despite the fact that one has the figure of a wooden spoon, and another, the figure of a teapot), I expect them to launch into the Dance of the Cygnets from Swan Lake. And why are there so many bridesmaids and groomsmen? I've attended weddings where there are more people in the bridal party than there are in the seats. At most, you need two bridesmaids – one to witness the register, maybe another to help with the dress when the bride needs to pee – and a best man to look after the rings and hold the groom upright when nerves or booze kick in. The rest are superfluous, are they not?

Did you know that the average wedding in 2010 cost £21,000? That's enough for a deposit on a house!

Two tickets to Vegas and a dress – that's £2,000, tops. Throw in Celine Dion tickets and an overnight trip to the Grand Canyon, and there's your honeymoon sorted, too.

Twenty-one thousand pounds. Seriously. None of that expense even guarantees a good meal. Really, the best way is to make the reception pot luck and be sure to invite some Italians.

Even more bewildering to me, though, are those couples who have lived together for three (or ten) years, have a dog, two cats and a dwarf hamster, but claim they're “not ready to get married yet”. What is there to be “ready” for? Are you waiting for a lightning bolt from the gods to show you that this is The One? Sorry to break it to you, honey, but you're already married. A signed piece of paper and a joint bank account won't change much.

This line of thought could open a whole can of worms: what is marriage? what did it mean throughout history? lawfully? traditionally? Biblically? I won't bore you with any of that right now – let's leave that for a more philosophical Rant.

Sugared almond, anyone?

P.S.: After an eight-month Rant hiatus, it's nice to be back.

Issue 14 - I Want To Believe

So many people mistake scepticism and cynicism for intelligence.

From the dawn of time, human beings have searched for truth, reality, knowledge—or have we?

We're a nosey bunch. There's no doubting that. Still, the general population will only explore as far as the wall of its comfort zone. Beyond that, scepticism is rife.

I've found that the vast majority of people will simply believe whatever they've been fed in the greatest quantity, without ever looking too deeply into it. "Because everybody knows that! David Attenborough said so on Blue Planet, so it must be a proven fact scientifically proven by science." And so the media and the internet trolls become the ultimate authorities on truth, while we spend our mental energy being sceptical of the things we're told to be sceptical of, instead of being sceptical of what we're being told.

So many times, belief becomes a Pick 'n' Mix. We take whatever bits of truth and lies we fancy and leave the rest for those weird people that eat Licorice All-Sorts. Actually, it's our tendency to take the stance that is most comfortable for us, the most accepted by popular opinion, where we don't have to be accountable to anyone or held responsible for anything. For example, these days it's OK to have “faith”, so long as we don't specify Who or What our faith is in—which, when you think about it, is the definition of stupidity.

We like to think that, in Western culture, we're accepting and tolerant of others' beliefs – so long as they don't hurt anyone – but go online and give, for example, the merest hint that you support the theory of creation over the theory of evolution and watch for the abuse that's hurled in your direction. Because belief in a creator God is unacceptable in "intelligent society". You'll be treated like Harry Potter, trying to convince people that Voldemort has come back from the dead: "It can't be true, because that would interrupt our cushy lives and mean we'd have to do something about it; therefore, you are an idiot."

It's partly an issue of pride. We'd hate to be seen as stupid and ignorant, or as a Muggle version of Luna Lovegood, wandering around looking for Nargles. [I'm seeing how many Harry Potter analogies I can fit into one Rant.] The more we criticise people who hold a belief in the supernatural, the more secure we feel in our belief that the Darwinian interpretation of scientific fact is the bottom line.

So, it seems we can't believe in an all-powerful God. Well, what about extra-terrestrial life? Stephen Hawking says They're Out There, so that's all right then, because he's, like, freaky-brainy and stuff. So we're justified in spending billions of dollars looking for intelligent life on other planets, instead of using that money to feed, clothe and educate the intelligent life on this one.

All too often, our death-grip on accepted scientific opinion lets plain old common sense slip through our fingers. What I mean is, we're perfectly willing to believe that little grey men with big eyes and anal probes are out there, somewhere, performing embarrassing exploratory surgery on unfortunate loners, but we don't wonder why an alien race that is sufficiently advanced to overcome the problem of infinite mass hasn't yet invented MRI.

(The funny thing is, ideas about alien life aren't exclusive to today's culture. Sure, it's now an acceptable proposition that super-advanced, powerful beings from another place – like us, but not like us – could interfere with our planet, probably with malicious intent, and change the course of the human race, but long ago the ancient Greeks and Romans believed the same thing. Only they called them the gods.

But that's getting a bit too Stargate for this post.)

It's not just UFOlogists who Pick 'n' Mix. The religious – man, that's become an ugly word lately – and/or spiritualists do it too. Your average Muslim will take the early teachings of the Koran about love and understanding and ignore (thankfully) the bits about killing the infidels to gain their heavenly rewards. The New Ager (and Church of Oprah member) will take the most lovey-dovey bits of every world religion and glue them together, ignoring the contradictions at their cores. Christians these days have a tendency to focus on Jesus meeting their needs and forget all the uncomfortable bits like, “You will be persecuted and killed because of Me.” Darwinists conveniently forget that natural selection and evolution are two very different beasts—the former observable and re-creatable in a laboratory; the latter unobserved and un-re-created.

So it would seem that the intelligent way to look at everything is to believe in the directly observable, and treat everything else with a heaping helping of scepticism, right?

Actually, that would be the most blinded, misinformed and ultimately destructive way to live.

And it's just about impossible to do.

To quote John Mayer (not something that should be done on a regular basis), “Everyone believes.” Whether you're an atheist or an agnostic, a Hari Krishna or a Hindu, a Muslim or a Mormon, a Jesus Freak or a Jedi, a member of the Church of Scientology or a member of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, you believe in something.

Why?

Well, the simple answer is “because we want to”, or, more accurately, “because we need to”. We're built that way. We're wired up to think creatively, beyond the bounds of what we see, hear, taste, smell and touch. To attempt to deny this is to put common sense in the grave (something our society is already in danger of doing).

Ever have that feeling you're being watched, and turn around to find that you are? (Usually by your cat.) Ever look at someone you've never met and just know they're dodgy, five seconds before they start following you down the road? Ever have that uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach that says, “Don't sign that contract,” or, “Don't lend that person money,” or, “He's lying to you”? Soldiers will tell you that they rely on this sixth sense in combat. Musicians experience a similar thing when a song “writes itself”. You can talk to me all you want about the brain making inferences and calculations at an extraordinary rate based on training, past experiences, a reading of body language and the “evolutionary instinct for survival”, but ultimately there are things in life that you just can't attribute to spending too much time at Hogwarts.

Why do we believe what we believe? Is it because that's what we've been taught? Is it because our beliefs best line up with the evidence? Is it because we've seen it for ourselves? Is it because everybody with an ounce of intelligence knows that it's true? Or is it because we're afraid of the repercussions if we're wrong?

Yes, we should question things—not for the sake of being cynical, or proving our superior intelligence over someone else, but so that we can truly SEE. So that we don't operate out of ignorance and blindness.

To all you snotty internet commentators out there: isn't it time to stop regurgitating those so-called scientific facts you've been taught, lay down your sense of superiority and have an honest think about things? Try directing your cynicism down a different path and see what it comes up with. You might be surprised.

To those of us who do believe in a world beyond human explanation: please remember to keep off the Dirigible Plums.

Issue 9 - Three Times The Bridesmaid...

I was discussing a friend's upcoming wedding with her when it suddenly dawned on me: I'm about to be a bridesmaid for the third time. It's a good thing I'm not superstitious, or that would be weighing fairly heavily on my mind.

It did get me thinking, though: where do superstitions like that come from? I can understand that many of them were probably, originally, just practical – e.g. walking under ladders makes you a prime target for beaning with a hammer; opening an umbrella inside the house is a good way to poke someone's eye out – but black cats and Friday the 13th? What's the big deal?

Wikipedia was no help, so I decided to do some proper research**. In true scientific fashion, various conflicting theories are tossed around as fact; ancient times and Druids and African myths are discussed; old, forgotten religions, misunderstandings and Biblical misinterpretations are sagely touted as the true origins – all of which led me to conclude one thing: nobody has a frickin' clue.

And then there are the contradictions. The number 13 is considered around the world to be unlucky. Again, there are various theories about the origin of this. (Some say it is because 13 is the supposed number in attendance at the Last Supper – the 13th being Judas Iscariot. Because of this, the Victorians considered it unlucky to have “13 at table” and the superstition surrounding the number developed from there. My personal favourite myth about the number 13 is that if you have 13 letters in your name, you will have “the devil's luck” – all because Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, Theodore Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer and Albert de Salvo each have 13 letters in theirs.) However, in Italy, 13 was long considered to be lucky, and it was 17 you really wanted to avoid. Black cats are another problem. In Egypt, the cat was seen as a protector and was quite often worshipped; the Egyptians also believed a cat's eyes caught the setting sun's rays and held them safe until morning came. In the West, though, cats were associated throughout history with witches and, as such, if one crossed your path, you were in for a run of bad luck at the witches' hands.

It's obvious that, throughout the ages, superstitions have become muddled and mingled beyond recognition. So why do they persist?

As I doubt very much that there is a scientific basis for any of these beliefs (e.g. I'm pretty certain the fabric of Lewis Hamilton's lucky underpants does not actually have special properties that make him drive faster), I'm left to conclude that their powers, whether real or imagined, operate solely on the mind.

This conclusion is further reinforced by the number of superstitions attached to important or emotionally-charged events, like weddings. In addition to the aforementioned "three times the bridesmaid, never the bride", we also have doozies like "something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue", "it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her dress before the ceremony" and "whoever catches the bouquet will be the next to get married" (I'm living proof that that one isn't true). Did you know it's the best man's duty to protect the groom from bad luck, and the bridesmaids are there to act as decoys for the bride, so the evil spirits don't know who to attack? No? Well, for goodness' sake, whatever you do, don't get married on a Saturday!

Monday for wealth

Tuesday for health

Wednesday the best day of all

Thursday for losses

Friday for crosses

Saturday for no luck at all

Of course, this is also an example of where, over time, superstition has spilled over into tradition. I'm not really one for following traditions. I often get vibed at for not saying “bless you” when someone sneezes.

“But you're supposed to do that, aren't you? Aren't you...? Everybody does...!”

Betcha thought you were just being polite, didn't you? Nope – the legends say that you must bless the person because either: (a) a sneeze indicates evil spirits leaving the body; (b) the heart stops beating during a sneeze and you need to bless the sneezer to get it going again; or (c) sneezing is a sign that the person may have caught the black plague and, by blessing them, you can hopefully stop them from dying. Funny, I always thought it just meant you had dust up your nose.

We all know the ones about breaking mirrors and walking on cracks in pavements, but how about these:

• If you have a bad cough, make a sandwich with one of the hairs from your head (the bread must be buttered), feed it to your dog and tell him, “Eat well, you hound, may you be sick and I be sound.” I wonder how that would go down with the Humane Society these days.
  
• A ringing bell means that a brand new angel has received its wings. Heaven must be getting crowded by now.
  
• If you can manage to catch a leaf as it's falling on the first day of autumn, you won't catch a cold all winter. (Does this also work for Swine Flu?)
  
• Dropping a fork means a man is coming to visit. I don't know who you get if you drop a spork. Maybe Captain Kirk. Or Eddie Izzard.

If you hold to any of these superstitions, at least they won't be much of a bother to anybody around you (with the possible exception of your dog), but there is one superstition that causes a heck of a lot of annoyance and bother to other people: chain letters. Honestly, the amount of chain mail I have failed to pass on should have made me the unluckiest person on the planet by now-- although...this failure could explain why my one true love has never declared his undying adoration for me. [Note to self: forward a couple of chain letters at first opportunity.]

If you're in the mood for testing a seasonal superstition, how about trying for a kiss under the mistletoe? It's supposed to mean harmony and fertility, and a young lady standing under the mistletoe cannot refuse to be kissed, or she may miss her chance of getting married the following year. I have yet to experience a mistletoe kiss, but I'm told it can work quite well in lieu of a good pick-up line. It can also get you a black eye.

Whatever you think about the subject, you've got to admit that human beliefs and superstitions are an interesting kettle of fish, and the reasoning behind most is more baffling than Kanye West's continuing popularity.

Now, I'm off to conduct a round of experiments, to document what happens when you find a four-leaf clover whilst walking under a ladder, or when you place a hat on a bed whilst wearing a rabbit's foot around your neck. I have a feeling the results may be inconclusive, at best.

Oh, yes – and if you immediately pass this article on to 30 friends, you will have all your heart's desires brought to you on a silver platter by a tall, dark and handsome man***.

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** i.e. Google
*** Unfortunately, Johnny Depp was not available for this service at the time of publication.