The ESPN Magazine list of the most famous 100 athletes of our time contain mini-lists of their number of Twitter “followers” – 2.4 million here for a footballer, 3.2 M. 628 K, all the hoi polloi signed up to get Fourth-Wall breaking updates from the minds of these anointed elite – or from some flunkie paid out of meal money? Politicians and comedians are in the same rarefied of word-straddling celebrity, firing off intimate insights and observations and bons mot to satisfy the earthly hunger of access to the these gods and goddesses of the supersystem.
OK, why? Will knowing that Bastien Schweinsteiger spent the morning having someone inject him with snake sperm in his calf give his legion of devotees the thrill of crossing the border into actual acquaintance with that most precious of substances, a celebrity. To quote Eric Idle, “What’s it like?” Can I be you, only for a moment? Can we all touch the hem of the garment of someone so chosen by the allegedly divine administrator of acclaim and talent?
Celebrity, is, for one and all, a distorting poison to the mind. Celebs cease to be humans, and must be let free to roam without getting into contact with the mesmerized gazes of the unwashed nobodies. Anyone with a Q value over 3 can never communicate essential truths about the dramas of quotidian living – this ban applies for pundits of any renown, authors and lectern grippers in general, and demarcates a generational line that should permit only the slightest affiliation across the borders between young middle-aged, and old. No one should care what Paul Pogba had for breakfast, what Curt Schilling thinks about warfare, or what a younger cohort views as the meanings of life.
Let the famous intermingle only with the famous, let the young bounce around in their own bouncy houses with other young.