To gawk or not to gawk. That is the question
Iremember a time, not too long ago, when the average South African did not seem to be affected by the presence of celebrity. For the longest time folks in this country seemed either too proud or too sophisticated to mob anyone because they were famous.
Sometime around 1999 I was at Louis Botha Airport in the south of Durban when none other than soul crooner Luther Vandross just happened to glide by. After I was done gathering my bottom jaw off the floor, I looked around at the other travellers, airport staff and general loiterers to confirm I was not seeing things. There were a plethora of bottom jaws scraping the floor amid plenty of pointing and whispers of, “Is that really him?”.
But during my 10-second sighting of the musical genius not one person mobbed him seeking an autograph or asked to pose with him for a photo opportunity. I guess it helped that back then it was roughly the year 10 BS (Before Selfie). The cutting-edge mobile phone at the time was the Sony Ericson T28 flip phone with a screen the size of a pocket calculator.
All I know is that we took a wrong turn somewhere and if the same situation played itself out now, some 20 years later, big ole Luther would have been swept up like a popcorn kernel in an ant colony.
Look, I’m not suggesting that the culture of celebrity worship is altogether a nouveau phenomenon in these parts. After all, just as many teenagers collapsed and left the Kings Park stadium on Netcare 24 stretchers when the King of Pop performed here 22 years ago as they did in Budapest, Tokyo or any other city in the world. But there was only one Michael Jackson. His only other equal in the celebrity stakes around here would have been Madiba himself.
If you think this columnist is immune to the psychological disorder of celebrity worship, you’re probably a new reader of this column. Twelve years ago I’m minding my own business at the urinals at Emperor’s
Palace. I briefly glance to my right and go back to my business. My brain starts having a furious debate with my eyes about the identity of the bulky figure next to me.
One of the Commandments of the Urinal is, “Thou shalt not keep thine eyes on thy neighbour for longer than one second.” But my brain instructs my neck to sharply swivel my head back to my right. And there he is. “Iron” Mike Tyson, the former “Baddest Man on the Planet”.
All my cool evaporated and left the room. Words tumbled out of my mouth. Don’t be silly — of course I have no idea what I said. For all I know, one of the things I said was, “That’s a really solid one you’ve got in your hand there, champ.”
One thing I’ll say about Mike (you can call him Mike when you’ve had such an intimate meeting with him) is that he’s a helluva nice guy. He really should have punched me in the face when I approached him, hand outstretched, trying to shake his without making a detour to the handwash basin first. Instead, he just smiled, shook his head and headed for the sink.
What I know about neurochemistry is dangerous at best. But I’m pretty certain that my brain was flooded with all manner of dopamines, serotonins and endorphins. As I watched him being hurried away by the security detail, I stood there shaking with excitement. But I was beating myself up for not having anything remotely intelligent or profound to say to the champ when I had his attention for eight seconds. Tyson is a voracious reader of history and philosophy. I could have impressed him by quoting Nietzsche, his favourite philosopher or something from Alexander the Great or even Napoleon’s love letters to Josephine. But no, I think I babbled something about some of his cameo appearances in movies.
Perhaps there is nothing wrong with creating the deities who walk among us. Perhaps some people have qualities we mere mortals do not possess, like Greek gods. And perhaps Kanye West deserves to be the 46th president of the US. It can’t get any worse, surely? I’m just glad about one thing. That when I ran into Tyson, I controlled the urge to say, “To be fair, I’d also have bitten off his ear, champ.”
All I know is that if the same situation played itself out now, some 20 years later, Luther would have been swept up like a popcorn kernel in an ant colony