“They seemed like such a real person, so normal, and so down to earth.” Have you ever heard anyone proclaim something along those lines after meeting a person that has been granted some level of celebrity status by whoever it is that grants such a status? The word “celebrity” encompasses a pretty broad swath of people, which are known for a pretty broad swath of reasons. Some reasons more desirable than others.

Usually it’s the movie star variety of celebrity that has the fan sincerely fawning about the individual’s level of realness, normalness, and earthliness. I’m not sure why these qualities would be surprising attributes for someone who appears to be of the homo sapient lineage.

They are people, sort of, or at least they play real people in their movies occasionally. Other than that, most live pretty unreal existences. Personal assistants, private chefs, on-call astrologists and spiritual advisors. Things people need in the world of the unreal. Us common folk make due with toaster ovens and Miss Cleo (R.I.P.).

They say that imitation is greatest form of flattery, and movie stars play us, real people, so they’re the ones that should be fawning over our every move. Maybe if we real folks were allowed access to the inner circles of celebrity blah-blah fests we’d hear things like, “Did you see what Bill, the butcher at the Piggly Wiggly, did yesterday? He’s so real, he smiled at another human and said something nice, and I think he actually meant it!”

Why do we give such a big stage and amplified voice to these people that pretend to be other people, normal people like us (“normal” may be stretch), for a living? This has always been a source of confusion to me (not the only source…math…mimes…hot dog eating contests…etc.). They play us, they pretend to have heartache, to lose loved ones, to go to war, to fight fires, to teach, to love, to do all that real people do every minute of every day.

The most glaring difference between us real folk and those pretenders, other than their shiny white teeth and luxurious hair, is that we do it all in one take. There is no, “Cut! Okay Tom let’s try that again with a little more passion. That volleyball is your best friend, how would you react if your best friend were drifting out to sea in front of your very eyes and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to save them? Take 26, and, action.”

Real life is the real deal, no “cut”, no “that’s a wrap folks, come back tomorrow and we’ll hand you sacks full of money to pretend some more”. No nothing, but moving onto the next minute of each and every day, day in, and day out, until one day we don’t. One shot at so very many passing moments.

Of course, we can learn from one experience to prepare us better for the next, but sometimes there may not be a next, or sometimes we’re just really slow learners. Sometimes we only get one shot, and when we miss it, it’s gone, and regret most likely takes the place of applause from our adoring fans. Regret is quite the rascal. It can leave deep furrows when it hits and skids through our consciousness. So it goes.

There are a few movies I regret exchanging my time for, mainly because they were one-way exchanges. They took my time (and money) and didn’t reciprocate with anything of substance (other than gas pains from fists full of popcorn). Popcorn farts are transient, loss of time is permanent. I suppose whether or not a given exchange is deemed mutually beneficial, and possessing substance, is subjective to the viewer.

This viewer’s subjective definition of “time well spent” in front of a big flickering rectangle, surrounded by strangers that have whistling nostrils, and low-grade whooping cough, doesn’t include anything starring Hugh Grant (unless he’s playing a mime…a mime savagely beaten by rogue troop of Red Hatters). That’s a romantic comedy I would suffer transient gas and loss of time for.

Keep it real my friends, the unreal need us for inspiration.