I don't need a nametag

one of the more interesting things about my job is that a few times a year I share close quarters for a weekend with famous people.

A company I do some writing for hosts a literary event each fall and invites writers who are about to or have recently published a book to attend and meet their adoring readers, do some readings, sell some books, blah, blah, blah.

Some of the authors are not known so much for their writerly skill, but are invited because they have name recognition--because they are famous for something else and they happened to publish a book. The genres range from fiction to nonfiction, poetry, memoir, cookbooks, books on sports, books on war, books on death, etc. Some of the authors are respected journalists or accomplished novelists. Often, the books are "all about me" whines like Howell Raines' book (former editor of the New York Times. Jayson Blair. Crash and burn. Yeah, that guy).

The authors who attend are feted and fussed over all weekend by bibliophiles and grasping corporate wonks who fancy themselves players, and celebrity whores and the whole thing just fucking fascinates me, especially the VIP crap.

As I mused over the alphabetical order of the bags of swag assembled for the VIPs at 6 AM last Saturday it occurred to me for the 100th time in the previous 24 hours that the people whose names were so carefully printed on tags pasted to the black handles of each bag didn't need any of the crap in those bags, and further, why the hell does everyone seem to think that they do? I mean, does Arianna Huffington ("all about me" book) really need or want a bookmark, specially commissioned chocolates, an embossed journal, watercolor notecards, on and on and on? And who decided Arianna was deserving of living a charmed, limousined life? Huh? Who? How the hell does this happen?

How is it that celebrities/famous people/people of note/people whose names and faces we know/rate this sycophantic "special" treatment? To the observer(me) the weekend was the most absurd circus of bullshit gyrations and ass-kissing-as-an-art-form I have ever seen in my life. And God help you if you fail to deliver a free event t-shirt to the celebrity. They love that free stuff and they will climb over you to make sure they get it on their way out the door to go schmooze in the VIP suite someone else paid for.

During the weekend I observed Martina Navratilova (just wrote a fitness/"all about me"/ book) sitting in the VIP dining room munching on a tuna sandwich specially ordered from a nearby deli for her and delivered by a runner because she didn't like the spread the caterers put on while Lynn Sherr (20/20 correspondent, just wrote a "all about me" memoir) signed books and sipped a double vodka martini. The people she personally inscribed her books to did not know her, but they had paid a lot of money to attend an elbow-rubbing reception and meet her and have their books signed. She arrived late and the fans never got to meet her but she did sign their books as she sipped.

Actress Meg Tilly (just wrote a novel/sorta all about me) sat quietly in a corner and made notes on white index cards before she did a reading from her book "Gemma." Tilly was a huge draw partly, I think, because she recently acknowledged that a previous work of fiction she published which detailed profound child abuse was largely autobiographical. A recent interview with Rosie O'Donnell didn't hurt the attendance at her reading, I'm sure. She sat away from all the literati and jotted notes, oblivious to the hustle of limo drivers and event coordinators rushing back and forth past her chair. Her husband, who refused to tell anyone his last name all weekend (I don't think anyone ever even asked him or really wanted to know, but okay, shh, it's a secret) sat beside her, fiddling with his Blackberry, oblivious as well.

By the way, Tilly looks exactly like she did in "The Big Chill" except for some distinct Susan Sontag-ish silver streaks in her dark bobbed hair.

Why is it that none of my male friends know who she is until I say: "You know, the chick who could put her ankle behind her ear in 'The Big Chill'--the one Jeff Golblum's character was leering at and drooling over..."

..."Oh...THAT chick, yeah..." they say, smiling wistfully.

The chicks all say: "Meg Tilly? Oh yeah, the post-partum crazy nun in that 'Agnes of God' flik." Yeah.

Meg seemed decent, real, gracious, normal. I never spoke to her, but she seemed pretty okay, like she could hang with my group of girlfriends.

Most of the others were living their press releases. They really believe they should be VIPs. They are elite and special (not like me or you) and they don't expect to be treated any other way. What a fascinating way to go through life. Handled.

The VIP thing. It's such bullshit. Phony, calculated, cynical bullshit. It all reminded me of The Emperor's New Clothes. We must all drink the Kool Aid. You are important and special and I will tie my ass in a knot to make you happy and feel special because you are SO. FUCKING. SPECIAL.

The thing is, I have friends who write brilliant, beautiful prose but they will never be read or published or elevated to the same stature as the folks I spent last weekend with and so as I observed all the schmoozing and hob-nobbing and air-kissing I wondered: "what's the difference?" Luck? Pathology? Fate? Karma?

As the VIPs greeted one another and smiled their big publicity-shot smiles and traded stories of their big lives, I observed the wait staff buzzing in and out unnoticed. The festival coordinators who had worked their asses off for months to put together a seamless event were ignored, hands extended were brushed aside because a fellow VIP was just beyond the hand of the regular Joe and had to be gotten to. The VIPs must connect and embrace in a ritual that keeps their secret power from seeping out to the poor, regular people.

As Meg and her husband dodged through the crowd on their way to the dessert table I overheard a wealthy turkey-necked patron remark to her equally turkey-necked and bejeweled companion: "...it's such a disappointment--I remember her as being a young girl in those movies..."

I don't know. But I think being invisible is probably not such a bad thing.