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Matthew Perry RIP
- Thread starter JPSmit
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Wasn't real familiar with him (never watched Friends), but for sure way too young! I saw an interview with him in which he said (paraphrasing) he would rather be remembered for beating his addictions and helping others in that than for being an actor on Friends.
PS: I just learned also that Richard Mull died a couple days ago (Bull from Night Court).
PS: I just learned also that Richard Mull died a couple days ago (Bull from Night Court).
titanfan10
Senior Member
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You should give friends a try.
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Cause of death - now they are saying (per my local news anyway) that the cause of death is still under investigation by the coroner.
OP
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Every week I get an email from Dan Piraro - author of the Bizarro cartoons. He usually includes some musings - which I often find very thoughtful. This was this week's.
The death of Matthew Perry inspired me to do some thinking about the strange phenomenon of fame and what it can do to us. Perry had said that “no one wanted to be famous more than I did,” and I can relate to that. When I was growing up, I wanted to be famous, too.
I don’t mean to imply that I know anything about Perry’s personal life or psyche, nor am I qualified to diagnose him in any way. But as a barely-famous person, I can relate to what celebrity feels like and what it can and cannot do for a person’s psychospiritual landscape.
I’m a naturally shy person. As a child, I could not speak to strangers under almost any circumstance; anonymity felt safe, attention seemed dangerous. But in early adolescence, I discovered that I could make people laugh and that felt good. This created a natural conflict: while shyness was a recipe for anonymity and safety, being funny attracted positive attention and approval. I bounced back and forth between these two modalities and became a kid who was usually quiet and well-behaved but could occasionally and easily shift into the role of class clown. In high school and my early twenties, I got into a few theater productions, was the singer and frontman for a band, and later toured as a stand-up comic and with my own one-man multi-media show.
In my forties, I had hoped to leverage my cartoon career and one-man show into an HBO comedy special or the like, but that never happened. I later came close a few times to getting my own TV show, but that didn’t quite work out, either.
Desiring fame is natural for many if not most humans. We are pack animals—we live in cooperative groups rather than solitarily—so it is natural for us to care what others think of us. Pack animals have a built-in pecking order, so to speak, that allows a few members to rise to leadership roles while the rest stand aside and project magical abilities upon them. We hope that our leaders will save us from dangers and hardships, so we suppose they are special and aggrandize their abilities. This is the fan’s role in the celebrity dynamic.
Because we have an evolutionary tendency to want to rise in the pack, it is easy to base our self-esteem on what others think of us. Being a performer isn’t a political leadership role, but it puts the pack’s attention on you, and the adoration and approval feel good. But that kind of satisfaction is fleeting. To achieve lasting self-esteem and a feeling of belonging in the world, we need a more intimate connection with others than fan worship can provide. And this is the trap that many performers fall into; they confuse attention for connection. They are not the same.
And here’s where fame gets really dicey: celebrity works against connection.
When you are as famous as someone like Matthew Perry, you are a hostage to your face. You can’t go anywhere without being bothered by strangers. At first, that can be fun and flattering, but being constantly asked to sign autographs or appear in selfies with everyone in the produce aisle at the local market converts the human race into a swarm of pesky mosquitos.
Even in more private situations, the people you meet treat you differently than everyone else. They seem nervous and self-conscious; you catch them staring at you even while others are talking; they ask you the same twenty-five questions about your career that you have been answering for years. You can’t blame them, but it is not a recipe for intimacy.
And when you meet someone with whom you feel you could be friends, you can’t help but wonder if they like you for who you are or simply because you are someone they can tell their real friends that they know. Celebrities at those lofty levels often have few friends who are not also celebrities; because being hostages of their careers is something only they can truly understand.
People become performers for different reasons. They may simply love the art of acting, singing, dancing, telling jokes, or playing music so much that they seek a career in it. For people like this, it is the art, not the fame, that attracts them. Performers of this sort may not be as likely to fall for the trappings and illusions of fame. But some performers—those who suffer from self-esteem issues—are looking to the public for approval and connection that will make them feel worthy of love. They seek inner acceptance through outer approval. In poetic terms, they attempt to fill the hole in their heart with applause. Those who become extremely famous often are unknowingly building a wall of seclusion around themselves, denying them the thing they need most. Marilyn Monroe is a famous example that jumps to mind.
I’m not remotely famous enough nor is my face well-known enough to have experienced these problems to any troubling degree. But as a result of my career as a syndicated cartoonist, I have occasionally met people who are ridiculously excited to meet me. It happens infrequently enough that I still find it novel and flattering, and I always enjoy meeting Bizarro fans, but I can see how, if it happened routinely, a person could both get tired of it and be tempted to believe they are worth this kind of fuss.
But no matter the hoopla people make over you, it doesn’t heal your wounds. You instinctively know you are still the same schlub you’ve always been.
In the end, fame is an illusion. What made you a celebrity is just a job—something you do to pay the bills and scratch your creative itch. A career that happens to come with fame doesn’t make you more worthwhile in any authentic, lasting way. And no matter your creative field, there are always scores of people far more famous, successful, rich, and popular than you. If you take that too seriously, it can feel like a daily punch in the gut. Earlier in my career, every time I’d walk into a bookstore and see 25 Garfield collections, and one or no Bizarro books, I’d go home feeling worthless. Garfield’s creator, Jim Davis, had a private jet with a big orange cat on the side; I drove a cheap Plymouth hatchback.
In midlife, I consciously stopped comparing my career to others’ and began to concentrate on the good things it gave me instead of what it lacked. I began to realize the most valuable things in life are not wealth and fame but relationships and community. I started paying more attention to the 3-dimensional people in my life than the number of followers on my social media accounts and have found it a much more satisfying use of my energy.
When we hear about celebrities who seem to have accomplished everything they set out to do but for whom it was still not enough, it can be tempting to think they are weak or selfish. The same can be true of our view of people with substance addictions. But the truth is more likely that they are existentially miserable and grasping for relief wherever they can find it. And the combination of their existential loneliness with their bulging bank account can often lead to self-medicating with any number of prescription or recreational drugs.
I think it’s good to remember that famous people are just like the rest of us, we just happen to know who they are without having met them. I used to long for that level of fame, but I’m now wise enough to be glad I didn’t get there.
The death of Matthew Perry inspired me to do some thinking about the strange phenomenon of fame and what it can do to us. Perry had said that “no one wanted to be famous more than I did,” and I can relate to that. When I was growing up, I wanted to be famous, too.
I don’t mean to imply that I know anything about Perry’s personal life or psyche, nor am I qualified to diagnose him in any way. But as a barely-famous person, I can relate to what celebrity feels like and what it can and cannot do for a person’s psychospiritual landscape.
I’m a naturally shy person. As a child, I could not speak to strangers under almost any circumstance; anonymity felt safe, attention seemed dangerous. But in early adolescence, I discovered that I could make people laugh and that felt good. This created a natural conflict: while shyness was a recipe for anonymity and safety, being funny attracted positive attention and approval. I bounced back and forth between these two modalities and became a kid who was usually quiet and well-behaved but could occasionally and easily shift into the role of class clown. In high school and my early twenties, I got into a few theater productions, was the singer and frontman for a band, and later toured as a stand-up comic and with my own one-man multi-media show.
In my forties, I had hoped to leverage my cartoon career and one-man show into an HBO comedy special or the like, but that never happened. I later came close a few times to getting my own TV show, but that didn’t quite work out, either.
Desiring fame is natural for many if not most humans. We are pack animals—we live in cooperative groups rather than solitarily—so it is natural for us to care what others think of us. Pack animals have a built-in pecking order, so to speak, that allows a few members to rise to leadership roles while the rest stand aside and project magical abilities upon them. We hope that our leaders will save us from dangers and hardships, so we suppose they are special and aggrandize their abilities. This is the fan’s role in the celebrity dynamic.
Because we have an evolutionary tendency to want to rise in the pack, it is easy to base our self-esteem on what others think of us. Being a performer isn’t a political leadership role, but it puts the pack’s attention on you, and the adoration and approval feel good. But that kind of satisfaction is fleeting. To achieve lasting self-esteem and a feeling of belonging in the world, we need a more intimate connection with others than fan worship can provide. And this is the trap that many performers fall into; they confuse attention for connection. They are not the same.
And here’s where fame gets really dicey: celebrity works against connection.
When you are as famous as someone like Matthew Perry, you are a hostage to your face. You can’t go anywhere without being bothered by strangers. At first, that can be fun and flattering, but being constantly asked to sign autographs or appear in selfies with everyone in the produce aisle at the local market converts the human race into a swarm of pesky mosquitos.
Even in more private situations, the people you meet treat you differently than everyone else. They seem nervous and self-conscious; you catch them staring at you even while others are talking; they ask you the same twenty-five questions about your career that you have been answering for years. You can’t blame them, but it is not a recipe for intimacy.
And when you meet someone with whom you feel you could be friends, you can’t help but wonder if they like you for who you are or simply because you are someone they can tell their real friends that they know. Celebrities at those lofty levels often have few friends who are not also celebrities; because being hostages of their careers is something only they can truly understand.
People become performers for different reasons. They may simply love the art of acting, singing, dancing, telling jokes, or playing music so much that they seek a career in it. For people like this, it is the art, not the fame, that attracts them. Performers of this sort may not be as likely to fall for the trappings and illusions of fame. But some performers—those who suffer from self-esteem issues—are looking to the public for approval and connection that will make them feel worthy of love. They seek inner acceptance through outer approval. In poetic terms, they attempt to fill the hole in their heart with applause. Those who become extremely famous often are unknowingly building a wall of seclusion around themselves, denying them the thing they need most. Marilyn Monroe is a famous example that jumps to mind.
I’m not remotely famous enough nor is my face well-known enough to have experienced these problems to any troubling degree. But as a result of my career as a syndicated cartoonist, I have occasionally met people who are ridiculously excited to meet me. It happens infrequently enough that I still find it novel and flattering, and I always enjoy meeting Bizarro fans, but I can see how, if it happened routinely, a person could both get tired of it and be tempted to believe they are worth this kind of fuss.
But no matter the hoopla people make over you, it doesn’t heal your wounds. You instinctively know you are still the same schlub you’ve always been.
In the end, fame is an illusion. What made you a celebrity is just a job—something you do to pay the bills and scratch your creative itch. A career that happens to come with fame doesn’t make you more worthwhile in any authentic, lasting way. And no matter your creative field, there are always scores of people far more famous, successful, rich, and popular than you. If you take that too seriously, it can feel like a daily punch in the gut. Earlier in my career, every time I’d walk into a bookstore and see 25 Garfield collections, and one or no Bizarro books, I’d go home feeling worthless. Garfield’s creator, Jim Davis, had a private jet with a big orange cat on the side; I drove a cheap Plymouth hatchback.
In midlife, I consciously stopped comparing my career to others’ and began to concentrate on the good things it gave me instead of what it lacked. I began to realize the most valuable things in life are not wealth and fame but relationships and community. I started paying more attention to the 3-dimensional people in my life than the number of followers on my social media accounts and have found it a much more satisfying use of my energy.
When we hear about celebrities who seem to have accomplished everything they set out to do but for whom it was still not enough, it can be tempting to think they are weak or selfish. The same can be true of our view of people with substance addictions. But the truth is more likely that they are existentially miserable and grasping for relief wherever they can find it. And the combination of their existential loneliness with their bulging bank account can often lead to self-medicating with any number of prescription or recreational drugs.
I think it’s good to remember that famous people are just like the rest of us, we just happen to know who they are without having met them. I used to long for that level of fame, but I’m now wise enough to be glad I didn’t get there.
Online
Plenty of wisdom there. Thanks for the post.
mikephillips
Yoda
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I kind of like being the anonymous little nobody. No one cares when I go in or out, what I might bring home from the grocery, shows I watch and so on. And I can be nice to folks when they look like they need a hand and it isn't a photo op. And no stress or big wall round the home needed.
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I wish I had that anonymity! When I go out in public, it gets tiring being accosted by hordes of screaming, adoring fans when they recognize I'm that world-famous British car forum guy.
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I wish I had that anonymity! When I go out in public, it gets tiring being accosted by hordes of screaming, adoring fans when they recognize I'm that world-famous British car forum guy.
Online
Hmm, they ALL must have been sick the day Jean and I weee with you!I wish I had that anonymity! When I go out in public, it gets tiring being accosted by hordes of screaming, adoring fans when they recognize I'm that world-famous British car forum guy.
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I must have been wearing my disguise that day!
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Wait, you both did >what< together?
In all seriousness, JP thank you for sharing. Well written, especially to a “common folk” like myself.
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We're all famous to someone -
Dave - is there anyone you don't know? Does even the Pope know you?
"Sure!" says Dave to his buddy. "I've known the Pope for years." So off they fly to Rome.
Dave and his buddy are assembled with the masses at St. Peter's Square when Dave says, "This will never work. I can't catch the Pope's eye among all these people. Tell you what, I know all the guards so let me just go upstairs and I'll come out on the balcony with the Pope." He disappears into the crowd headed towards the Vatican.
Sure enough, half an hour later Dave emerges with the Pope on the balcony, but by the time Dave returns, he finds that his buddy has fainted and is surrounded by paramedics.
Making his way to his friend's' side, Dave asks him, "What happened?"
His buddy looks up and says, "It was the final straw... you and the Pope came out on to the balcony and the man next to me said, 'Who the heck is that guy in the white robe standing next to Dave?'
Dave - is there anyone you don't know? Does even the Pope know you?
"Sure!" says Dave to his buddy. "I've known the Pope for years." So off they fly to Rome.
Dave and his buddy are assembled with the masses at St. Peter's Square when Dave says, "This will never work. I can't catch the Pope's eye among all these people. Tell you what, I know all the guards so let me just go upstairs and I'll come out on the balcony with the Pope." He disappears into the crowd headed towards the Vatican.
Sure enough, half an hour later Dave emerges with the Pope on the balcony, but by the time Dave returns, he finds that his buddy has fainted and is surrounded by paramedics.
Making his way to his friend's' side, Dave asks him, "What happened?"
His buddy looks up and says, "It was the final straw... you and the Pope came out on to the balcony and the man next to me said, 'Who the heck is that guy in the white robe standing next to Dave?'
Last edited:
OP
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The other week I was listening to an interview with Bernie Taupin talking about his time writing with Elton John - very interesting for many reasons, not the least of which was his anonymity. He absolutely went to all the parties in the day but for most of his life has preferred to be anonymous and just lives his life. A huge contrast to Elton.