Fame in the digital age

I am not a famous person. I was on a commercial that aired on local television in Georgia in the mid-’90s, and a few years ago I saw Sinbad—yes, the ’90s comedian known for such great movies as “First Kid” and “Jingle All the Way”—at the airport. But, despite those brushes with stardom, I don’t get invited to the Oscars, I can’t get into exclusive restaurants any night I want, and I certainly don’t get any swag—though I did get some pretty sweet stuff in bar mitzvah gift bags back in middle school. Famous people, society tells me, are more important than I am.

But what, exactly, is fame?

A quick survey of Dictionary.com turns up the following definition: “widespread reputation, esp. of a favorable character; renown; public eminence.” The wording is important—especially, but not exclusively, of a favorable character. So, to be famous you don’t have to be liked, but you do have to be known. By a lot of people. The next step, of course, is to determine how many people—but I’ll return to that later.

The question I’d like to examine now is why so many people are in love with that idea of being known. Why do we want to be famous? A practical explanation might be that people don’t necessarily want fame itself, but rather the things associated with it—invitations to the Oscars, access to exclusive places, swag. The whole sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll fantasy.

But I don’t think the cast of “The Biggest Loser” or the rejects on “The Bachelor” are exactly living the celebrity high life. They may get recognized, and maybe even laid, but the benefits probably don’t extend much beyond that. It seems clear that, at least in some respects, the desire for fame is for the thing itself. That is, people want to be known just to be known. So what value is there in being known?

The chief thing, I think, is the hope that being famous will alleviate human concerns about being alone and insignificant. I don’t mean to say that people go through life stricken by loneliness, but, like it or not, we are each trapped in our respective heads—others can’t know how we feel any more than we can know how they feel. There is a gap between every individual that can never be closed, and on some level we all sense this.

It makes sense that we try to deal with this concern by forming as many human connections as possible. The more people care about us, the more significant and less alone we are. In a recent Rolling Stone article, Bruce Springsteen said, “I have an audience out there that needs me, and a family at home that needs me—I like that idea.” That sort of relief is perhaps what we think “being known” will provide.

Of course, these desires and insecurities are nothing new—what’s new are a few previously nonexistent methods of alleviating them. Facebook, Twitter, blogs, and viral videos on YouTube all allow you to “be known” to more people than ever before. You may be interested in the daily minutiae of the life of your favorite celebrity, but you have little reason to care what that kid in your CC class is tweeting about from his trip to Virginia with the young Democrats. Still, you might “follow” him because you secretly hope that he—and 1,000 people like him—deeply care about what you are tweeting. Like Dylan sang, “I’ll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours.”

In a way, these Web sites provide the “audience out there that needs me.” That being said, there is a difference between 800 Facebook friends and Bruce’s 80,000 screaming concert-goers, but the effect—or the hoped-for effect—is similar. I say hoped-for because there is always the risk of becoming known only to make the same discovery that Albert Einstein did—“It is strange to be known so universally and yet to be so lonely.”

Still, while some would claim that Facebook, Twitter, etc., are just digital Band-Aids covering up—or even worsening—the modern deterioration of personal relationships, I would argue that their contributions to combating basic human loneliness are laudable. David Foster Wallace said in an interview once that he thought the point of art had “something to do with loneliness and something to do with setting up a conversation between human beings.” Although the conversation online might not be as elevated as the author had in mind, I would venture to say that he could have just as easily been talking about Facebook.

Neil FitzPatrick is a Columbia College sophomore. Excuses and Half-truths runs alternate Tuesdays.