| |||
|
Arts & Entertainment Books Comics Health & Body Media Mothers Who Think News  PeoplePolitics2000 Technology - Free Software Project Travel & Food  Columnists
- - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - Also Today For a full list of today's Salon People stories, go to the
People home page. - - - - - - - - - - - - Search Salon - - - - - - - - - - - - Recently in Salon People Nothing Personal Nothing Personal Rogues' Gallery Nothing Personal Column - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - |
- - - - - - - - - - - -
June 18, 1999 |
You might infer that more seductive than diamonds, gold and power is a man who does nothing but stammer, "Um ... I apologize," while whapping his
eyelashes rapidly enough to achieve aerodynamic lift. You might conclude that among celebrities the bodyguard vogue has passed, replaced by a
strategy of entering strangers' rancid flats to change clothes. You might even decide that actor Rhys Ifans has struck a blow for humanity
by proving that a real human being can play a sidekick every bit as obnoxious as Jar Jar Binks. But I strongly suggest you look deeper for the true lesson of "Notting Hill." It is neatly contained in a speech made by Grant's character
late in the film when, in a passing moment of clarity, he chases Roberts away with the words, "There are just too many pictures of you.
Too many films." Naturally, Hugh goes on to ignore his own wisdom, thereby avoiding a class-action suit by outraged movie patrons. He was right the first time, though, and if you won't listen to him, listen to me. Never fall in love with someone whose image will keep popping up on
screens and magazines, pummeling you again and again like a revolving fan blade. It might be fun when you first meet. Just, please, consider
the future. A lover may dump you, but the media is forever. Mary walked into a photo store and got in line behind me one day in
1990. I will spare you the rhapsodic details and merely state that I was
subsequently smacked upside the head by a giant Codfish of Love, a
larger and more fiercely whiskered codfish than ever had smacked me
before. I was addled, cowboy. Mary was a psychology student and sometime
choreographer who paid the bills with a steady if unspectacular modeling
career. As far as I knew she might also have found part-time work as the
sun, moon and stars. My charms evidently proved more fleeting, and our
once-torrid relationship was dead after six months. For her, at least. I was about to embark on one of those embarrassing spirals that tests
and finally exhausts the patience of sympathetic friends. Years of
determined moping -- inspiring, or perhaps inspired by, a lingering case of
depression -- found me unable to process all that excellent get- Perhaps I simply hadn't noticed it before when the sight of Mary's image
was not yet a serrated fish-gutting knife running up my abdomen. I
certainly noticed afterward. In those days I worked at a radio station
in Vancouver, British Columbia, in the Kitsilano neighborhood, overlooking a
busy street. At the bus stop a block away from work, I came face to face
with the object of my obsession. Mary, sitting lotus-style with eyes
closed and a vaguely orgasmic smile, starred in a life-size poster for
a chain of fitness clubs. "Hi Steve!" she said. "How's it hangin'?" I didn't hear that. "See you tomorrow!" she called as I hurried past. The
evil cackle was new, I thought. Mary's drugstore commercial began running every night during the
evening news. The jingle was based on a Pointer Sisters hit that still
makes me break out in hives. Her modeling appearances in local
newspapers were frequent enough to make opening a paper comparable
to clicking a faulty light switch, always flinching in anticipation of a sharp shock. I came to expect such pangs, becoming adept at psychic channel-changing just ahead of the offending ad, or at the very least bracing myself when
entering dangerous territory. But it wasn't always possible to be
prepared. When the biggest gut punch arrived, I was totally relaxed. | ||
 |
 |
 |
 |
Next page |