Dracula: “Do you know why you cannot resist?”
Buffy: “Because you’re famous?”

So you know how people say you should just write openly in your blog and not worry about how stupid it sounds?

Okay then.

I’m envious of Choire.

I must be living on Planet X or something, because I didn’t realize until today that Choire’s been the editor of Gawker for two months now. I began here, which led me here, which led me here, which led me here, which led me here. It was that last one that led me to say holy shit.

I don’t really read Gawker, and although I knew it was big, I didn’t realize how big. I didn’t realize it was more than just a New York thing. (Of course there’s no such thing as “just a New York thing,” since New York is the media capital of the country.) Choire is the editor of Gawker; ergo, Choire is now famous in the national media world. People who are in the know know who Choire Sicha is.

Wow.

The thing is, I’m feeling this cognitive dissonance. My brain can’t accept the fact that someone I know can be famous.

Choire was the first person I ever met through my blog, back in 2001. Back then, there was this little New York gay blogging circuit. The gay blogging world seemed finite. Choire became an acquaintance, and I’d IM him sometimes, usually feeling anxious about one thing or another, and he’d help bring me back to calmness. Of course, he had his own big world going on, but I didn’t know about any of that. He was my gay blogging friend.

And now he’s famous.

I think I still have a child’s-eye view of fame. When you’re a kid, famous people are the people you see on TV, and people on TV are not real; therefore, famous people are not real; they are not like the flesh-and-blood people you know and interact with. Part of me still thinks that’s true. Part of me still thinks there’s this wall between The Famous and The Rest, while really, in the 21st century, that wall is porous.

I grew up around Manhattan, and yet I still get all sweaty and speechless when I see a famous person in three dimensions. Many years ago my family was visiting Paris at the same time that the cast of “The Hogan Family” was filming its 1989-1990 season premiere there. We saw them not once but twice, on two different days, in two different places. And I was subconsciously in love with Jason Bateman at the time, so I was just like… aughghgughgh.

I always want famous people to notice me — as if a) there’s any reason they would notice me and b) their noticing me would lead to amazing things — I’d be pulled into their circle, they’d recognize my amazing talents, and I’d be loved and admired for the rest of my life. Last winter, my family and I were eating dinner at a restaurant near Rockefeller Center, and Conan O’Brien walked in with three other men. They’d probably just finished taping that night’s show, and they sat down at a table right near us. And I kept wanting Conan to notice me. I would have been satisfied even if one of his tablemates had noticed me. I got up to use the bathroom at one point, hoping that by moving around I might draw their eyes. To what end? Even if I did draw their eyes, I’d still just be some random guy.

The Internet has democratized fame. If you’ve got what it takes, it’s so much easier to be famous today, because it’s so much easier to build a web to others. You still need to have certain qualities — Choire’s a hysterically creative writer, and he deserves to be well-known. I just envy that, I guess. I still feel weird that I’ve hung out with Brad and have met Anil. It’s almost like there’s supposed to be this button that lights up when someone is Well-Known. Some universal Platonic way to identify him.

Famous people are just people, of course. And is it really important for me to be famous? Isn’t it better for me to just find something I love to do and be able to do it?

Why are certain people more well-known than others? Is it just inherent talent, or is it inherent talent plus ability to meet others? I could never be like Choire — I’m not a mover and a shaker, I’m not plugged into the scene, I don’t have the drive he has. But I’m envious, because he’s crossed the barrier into… into what?

Into someplace I’m not.

It’s not that I necessarily want to be where he is. Because where he is is not the place for me. But he’s (presumably) doing stuff that he loves, and he knows lots of people, and he gets free cocktails and he probably lives a fabulous life right now. He’s achieved certain goals.

I want to achieve the goals I set for myself. I want to write something wonderful, and then meet the right people (and more importantly, have the ability to schmooze with them), and then have someone recognize my supposed talents and pay me lots of money so I can quit my job and write wonderful works of art and live happily ever after.

There are more threads I could spin off of this post — the objective value of works of art, whether something is truly Great or not, and so forth.

But I need to go eat lunch.