Free The Guinea Pig Diaries by A. J. Jacobs Page A

overwhelming. Dozens of people—producers, execs, agents, and seat fillers—jostle to get close to me. “Phenomenal.” “I love you.” “Big fan.” And most common, “Love your work.”
    “Love your work” is the standard celebrity greeting. When you meet a widow, you say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” When you meet a celebrity, you tell him how much you love his work, even if you think he’s got the charisma of drywall. As an entertainment reporter, I’d said it many times. Brad Blanton would be appalled.
    One man asks if I know that fellow Aussie Paul Hogan is a fan.
    “Isn’t that nice?” I reply.
    My admirers are outraged I didn’t get nominated. “Youwere robbed!” says one. I agree, noting that I’ve been so bitter, I’ve trashed eight hotel rooms. “Good for you!” he said.
    Usually, though, when I’m praised, I just respond, “Thanks. But I’m no hero. Just doing my job.”
    It’s not a joke, really. Just some words to fill the space. But it always elicits an appreciative whoop from the listener. Because when you’re a celebrity, anything that emerges from your mouth that vaguely resembles a joke is cause for gut-busting laughter from everyone within earshot.
    I’ve seen this phenomenon from the other side many times. I saw it with alarming clarity when I spent an hour with the most famous person I’ve ever met: Julia Roberts. I met her because, for a few months in the 1990s, I dated one of her many assistants. Rachel worked in Julia’s vanity production company , which didn’t actually produce movies or anything, but which occupied a beautiful loftlike office in Soho. Rachel’s main job, as she’d tell you herself, was to be responsible for the office aquarium. It was home to some lovely tropical fish. And it was probably the most tangible thing the production company had successfully developed. Every few weeks, Julia would announce that she planned to visit the New York office, and Rachel would be sent into a frenzy of Windex-ing and filter cleaning.
    Anyway, Rachel was sweet enough to wangle me an invitation to the premier for
My Best Friend’s Wedding.
I’d be her plus one. Julia Roberts was actually friendly and charming—she gave me her famous smile, shook my hand, told me she loved working with my girlfriend. But the night left me drained and sad. Being around Julia’s posse, especially during the ten-minute limo ride from the office to the premiere, was an exercise in exhausting forced merriment. It was the same vibe as New Year’s Eve—
You will have fun!
(said in Colonel Klink accent).
    A typical exchange:
    Acolyte: “Have you had dinner yet, Julia?”
    Julia: “No, I am starving! I could eat a horse!”
    We all erupt in laughter. We laugh like the crowd at a Chris Rock concert. Like we all just sucked down a tank of nitrous oxide. Like my two-year-old son laughs when he’s getting tickled on his belly till he’s gasping for air. We look at each other in amazement.
Did you hear what she said? Marvelous! Imagine a person eating a horse! The very idea! A horse is so big!
    A couple of years later, I interviewed Conan O’Brien for
Entertainment Weekly.
He was talking about what it’s like to be famous, and he brought up the braying phenomenon. Conan said he actually liked to test the limits of this. Sometimes, he said, he’d be walking through an airport, and someone would shout, “Hey Conan!”
    And he’d reply with a string of nonsense syllables—“Squidleedoo!”
    And they’d crack up, shaking their heads in wonder at his wit.
    So it is with me at the Oscars.
    “How are you?”
    “Great, mate!” I answer.
    I’m bathed in a cascade of laughter.
    It’s not just laughter, though. I amplify every emotion. One fortyish producer, with no provocation, takes me aside and tells me about how his father was disappointed he didn’t go into the family business of making linings for sport coats. It is clear he’s tormented by his long-ago decision. But