Lead Cow Syndrome

I found the Art’s Section from an old copy of the New York Times this morning stuck to the back of one of our navigation charts and thought. "What is it about celebrities?" Just the notion vexes me. A few weeks ago, I attended a beach party on Warderick Wells where Johnny Depp owned an island nearby. I was chatting with a local dude discussing the pros and cons of Kalik Gold. He felt if you drink KG you might as well drink rum. “It’s way cheaper.” he said. Then one of his friends sided up to me.
“He works for Johnny Depp you know.”
The dude instantly became more interesting. It was an amazing split-second transformation.
“You work for that actor?” I asked. (I was trying to sound nonchalant. I felt my “cool quotient” was on trial.) 
“Yeah” he replied.
“Cool.” I said, suddenly feeling like I was back in High School. “What’s he like?”
“He’s really nice” he replied.
“That’s nice” I said finishing the conversation. 
I inexplicably took his picture. Then moved on. At least I didn’t insist someone take one of the two of us. I’m way too cool for that. 
That episode shattered my “I don’t care about celebrities” theory. I still don’t understand why I got excited. What if the “actor” had shown up? Would I have pissed my pants? And why actors? Why not accountants?
Come to think of it, my accountant handled Newt Gingrich’s divorce a number of years ago. Back when Newt was popular. We were huddled together in his office creating fiction known as a 1041 tax return when he let it slip.
“You’re handling Newt Gingrich’s divorce?” I asked.
“Yeah” he replied.
“Cool.” I said. “What’s he like?”
“He’s really nice.”
“That’s nice” I said before delving back into our nascent novella.
My accountant suddenly gleamed with importance in my eyes. I’m surprised he didn’t charge me an extra twenty percent. He could’ve added an additional column on his bill, “Celebrity Surcharge.” I probably would’ve paid it. (If you’re reading this Harvey, you’re too late.)
My spirit of competition drove me back to the cruisers and losers poker game last night over on Stocking Island. I was at the bar celebrating another loss. The woman next to me had a lovely southern drawl.
“Where are you from daw-lin” I asked.
“Are you making fun of me?” she replied.
“Certainly not sugar. I live in Atlanta” I retorted.
“Oh.” she said. “I’m from Nashville. You know my roommate used to date Porter Wagner.”
Just like that. We hadn’t even gotten to the “What’s your name?” part.
We’re a celebrity obsessed planet. I’m amazed we haven’t chucked religion entirely and gone right to celebrity worship. “The Church of Oprah” sounds nice. Or how about “I’m a Tom Cruiseian. Have you got a minute?” Perhaps it’s simply a matter of time. The softball games would be more interesting.
But why? Why are we like this? There’s probably a plethora of books written on the subject. Damn if I’m going to read them. It’s boring enough bobbing out here in the ocean. (But oh so beautiful.)
My theory is that it boils down to the lead cow. That’s pronounced “leed.” Not “led”.
Back when I was a cattle rancher (which should add to my cool quotient), there was always one. The cows would amble from one pasture to the next, instinctively staying together in a herd. Every evening, just before sundown, the lead cow would decide it was time to head back towards the barn. Off she’d go with the rest of them trailing behind her. Why her? How did she get the job? I’m pretty sure no one elected her. But no other cow ever tried it. It was always the same dang cow. She was the Julia Roberts of cow-dom.
So, in my mind, we’re just a herd of grazers fresh off of the pasture. Always looking for that lead cow to show us the way home. Isn’t that really nice?