Free The Guinea Pig Diaries by A. J. Jacobs

“I want to know what it’s like to
be
a celebrity,” my editor told me. “Do they have a secret handshake? How does it feel to be recognized everywhere you go? Will you feel the urge to open a theme restaurant?” (This was the height of the theme restaurant frenzy, when everyone with a SAG card had his or her own eatery.)
    A couple of days before the Oscars, I fly to L.A. I rent a tuxedo, get a limo on the magazine’s dime, and adopt my version of a Melbourne accent—which, unfortunately, sounds exactly like the Lucky Charms leprechaun. It’s the best I can do.
    On the big night, the limousine picks me up, inches along the traffic-choked streets, and pulls up to the red carpet at the Shrine Auditorium. I start to open my car door, but the driver stops me. “Wait a minute,” he says. He comes around and opens it for me. Oh yes. Of course.
    My forehead is already damp with sweat. I’m worried the ruse won’t work—I don’t carry myself like a star. I’m too slump-shouldered, too self-conscious. But as soon as I step onto the red carpet and wave, hundreds of fans in the nearby bleachers roar.
    It’s been thirty seconds of my life as a celebrity impostor and already I’ve experienced more power than I’ve ever had in my life. It’s positively Pavlovian. I move my hand, several hundred people shout. Move it again, they shout some more.
    “Shine
guy!” they scream. “Hey,
Shine
guy!” A few actually shout my/his name: “Noah! We love you!”
    The red carpet is surprisingly long. It goes straight for a few yards, then makes a right turn and flows a block or two down to the Shrine doors, which are flanked by four enormous Oscar statuettes. The statues look, as essayist Stanley Elkin once wrote, like “sullen art deco Nazis.”
    The rope line is jammed with hundreds of journalists and photographers. The drill is the same year after year: The journalists are like dog trainers and the celebrities are a bunch of unruly, uncooperative fox terriers. “Noah! Noah! Over here! Come! C’mon! Sit! Do interview!”
    I wave off most of the pleading press with mock humility.
    “I don’t want to take away from Geoffrey’s big night,” I shout to MTV’s Chris Connelly. (Geoffrey Rush is nominated for an Oscar—and will go on to win later tonight.)
    “But Geoffrey said your performance inspired him!” Chris shouts back from behind the barrier.
    “Sorry, mate,” I say.
    I finally stop for an interview with a Norwegian TV show. I figure it was an appropriately obscure place to make my media debut.
    “What will you do next?” the square-jawed Norseman asks.
    “I want to do some big event movie with earthquakes and hurricanes,” I say.
    “Thank you. You were wonderful. I wish you luck.”
    As I break away from the Norwegian team and continue down the carpet, I hear a roar behind me. Claire Danes has emerged from her limo. All the cameras and microphones swivel toward Claire like a crowd watching Wimbledon. I am last minute’s news. Fame is fleeting.
    •    •    •
    Luckily, more positive reinforcement awaits me inside. The lobby of the Shrine looks as though it hasn’t been refurbished since it was built in 1926. It’s got a faux Middle Eastern theme going on—lots of domed doorways and arabesque designs in the ceiling.
    But you’re not supposed to be looking at the design. Because there’s Ed Norton! And Tim Robbins! And Joan Allen! I know it’s obvious, but the density of celebrities is stunning and disorienting. This many famous people shouldn’t be clustered in one place like that. It’s not natural. It’s like going to a wedding where you’re the only guest and everyone else is a bride or groom.
    I was told by a friend who works in Hollywood that you’re not supposed to sit in your seat. That’s for suckers. The real power players just mill around the lobby, congratulating each other and ordering vodka tonics at the bar.
    So I mill around. And am swarmed. The attention is