In an idle moment (of which, perhaps, I have too many), I wonder what Jude Law is doing. Is he picking lint out of his belly button? Is he reading the latest about the London bombings? Is he considering firing the agent who suggested that starring in Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow would be a good career move? Is he getting it on with his children’s new nanny? Is he contemplating eating a peach?
And, while I’m on the subject, what about Rachel MacAdams? Is she in an upscale boutique on Rodeo Drive wondering if she can get away with the smaller bra, even if it does leave red welts on her skin? Is she scratching behind her left ear? Is she wondering about getting a turtle? Is she reading a screenplay that she can already tell will make a terrible movie, but the screenwriter is her friend so she feels obligated to finish? Is she scratching behind her right elbow?
There is an inscrutable veil over the everyday lives of celebrities. Pull it back and what do we find?
Gwyneth Paltrow is sharpening a pencil. Jon Stewart is ignoring a bill that’s been sitting on the desk in his office for several days. Henry Winkler is blinking madly, trying to get something annoying out of his eye. Jon Anderson is adjusting the tuner on his radio, trying to find a station that plays music that doesn’t suck.
This is now. This moment. Not a press junket. Not a photo op. This is what happens when the cameras have been turned off and the journalists have gone home. Bono walks down the street to the chemist’s to get some aspirin for a mild headache. Diane Keaton is finding that What the BLEEP Do We Know? isn’t as interesting as she was told it would be, so she is stopping the DVD. George Steinbrenner is losing interest in his grandson’s lesson on how to get connected to the Internet.
Elvis Costello is about to tear himself away from a game of Hearts on his computer. Angelina Jolie is doing dishes. Fred Durst is putting drops in his eyes. Kirsten Dunst is watching somebody she doesn’t really like all that much put drops in his eyes (but, not Fred Durst). Christian Bale is arguing with his mother about nothing consequential, a habit he hates but he can’t seem to keep himself from indulging in.
Peter Krause is listening to the latest Black Box Recoder album; after several plays, he’s still not sure if he likes it. Miranda July is looking over a catalogue of camera lenses, bored. James Cameron is idly picking his nose. John Irving is deciding not to pack his good suit -- the suitcase is full and, anyway, he doesn’t imagine that any business will be conducted on the trip. Bif Naked is ruing the day she ever bought that car as, sitting next to the truck driver, she sees the garage looming.
Jack Nicholson is playing his tongue over a tooth that has been hurting him for weeks, even though he absolutely refuses to go to a dentist. Jack Nicholson not going to the dentist! It is about the time that I imagine this that I begin to have a creeping suspicion that the inscrutable veil was pulled over the daily lives of celebrities for very good reason. Still, I persevere.
At this moment, Stephen King is looking out the window, aware that nothing is coming and obsessed by the question: what does an ant taste like to an aardvark? Steven Spielberg is drinking a grape soda and wondering if he should have the roast beef for dinner. Shalom Harlow is reading another page of Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time.
Lindsay Lohan is driving herself mad trying to see the sex scene in Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. Rob Zombie is using a toothpick to get a piece of meat stuck between his teeth free, secretly hoping that nobody notices his bleeding gums. Paul McCartney is banging furiously on his air conditioning unit. Bruce Campbell is walking through a gift card shop looking for something that is mildly positive to celebrate the birthday of somebody he doesn’t especially like.
Laurie Anderson is stringing a violin. Eric Bogosian is shaving. Paula Abdul is wondering if maybe she should get a life, and –
And, I decide that maybe I should get a life, too.