Lizzie and I met for dinner before the game. "Oh boy, do I have a surprise for you!"
She had told a reporter friend about me, and now local TV and newspaper wanted to publish my story. A "lifelong Steelers fan relocated himself, his job, and his dogs for five months just to spend a season here" sort of feel-good story. It would make a good puff piece. I would watch that. I would read that.
"Pass," I said, using my hand to flick the stupid idea from the air in front of me.
"Wha- what?!" Lizzie was first confused, then aghast. She restated the offer, for surely I hadn't understood it. The next day, everyone at the cigar bar threw wadded up balls of paper at me.
Not for the first time in my life, I had to explain that I detest that sort of attention. I feel less than zero inclination to see myself on TV or read my name in print. I would pay to avoid the former.
It took me back to my arguments about fame with my actress friend Kristin. It came down to this: I said didn't want to be famous, and she insisted I was lying.
"Everyone wants to be famous, John." That is the sum of her evidence. Since I am a part of "everyone," I am a lying fame whore.
She couldn't wrap her head around my distaste for being put on display. Eventually, I gave up trying to explain it. What's to be said? Some of us accept a chance at fame as payment for making out with Vanilla Ice. And some people would pay serious money to avoid both.