What price for those 15 minutes of fame?

What price for those 15 minutes of fame?

JAKARTA (JP): Each of us must carry a finite lifetime quotient
of close encounters with the high and mighty.

These are the fleeting moments when we get to bask in the
heady glow -- or cringe in numbed embarrassment -- at the
experience of rubbing shoulders with the famous.

But those of us who spend our days living in suspended hope of
catching a glimpse of so-and-so sifting through the produce
section at the local Hero may find it easier going these days.

Great leveler that it is in cutting all of us down to size,
the crisis seems to have prodded a bevy of Indonesian actors and
singers to try their hand opening one of the upmarket sidewalk
cafes sprouting up around the city.

Now you can spot sex siren Inneke Koesherawaty sans sequins
but attired in a matronly apron, or maybe get quiz show host and
Trio Libel singer Ronny Sianturi to serenade you as he serves up
your dinner.

On second thoughts, maybe not.

I myself chalked up another entry in the file of celebrity-
spotting anecdotes a couple of months ago. In the plush
surroundings of a Jakarta hotel fitness center (think fountains
and security guards in dapper designer jackets), Indonesia's Man
of the Moment scampered before me into the plunge pool.

No, no, not the old soldier who simply refuses to fade away.
Here instead was the economic messiah whose pinched features and
Rin Tin Tin buzz cut have become part and parcel of the nation's
collective consciousness.

Financial markets and penny-pinching housewives alike may
cling to his every word, but Hubert Neiss, sweating buckets from
the sauna and just as nature intended, was showing all and sundry
his very human side on this particular Sunday afternoon.

Even so, I could not muster the courage to strike up a
conversation. For one, subject matter seemed a tad restricted
("That IMF is really putting the screws on the country, huh?").

And, for another, this man, alternately feted and reviled at
every turn, looked like he needed a breather from the trappings
of a celebrity thrust upon him by the fate of circumstances.

Today, in Indonesia at least, he lives in that claustrophobic
nightmare of an unforgiving public fishbowl, even though his only
claim to fame is he happened to be in the wrong job at the wrong
time when Indonesia started falling apart at the seams.

Come now, I hear you say. We all laugh in derision at Demi's
diatribes against invasions of privacy, at having her and Bruce's
marital spats plastered over the tabloids for public consumption.
But her plea for a respite from the paparazzi blitz rings a tad
hollow when we recollect her willingness to jiggle her silicone-
enhanced wares for all the world to see in exchange for a fat
US$12 million paycheck.

But Hubert's dueling with the double-edged sword of fame is a
deserving case for sympathy.

After all, I doubt he has an ounce of Madonna's blond
ambition, and he certainly did not stoop to conquer, like Imelda,
in making a name for himself.

Which is patently irrelevant because, like it or not, he is
saddled with dealing with how the rest of us react to his
presence in our midst.

We demand the famous show superhuman understanding and grace,
even if we are shoving a pen and pad in their faces or moseying
up to snap a photograph as coffee dribbles down their chin.

I found this out for myself when I crossed paths with the
renown Gloria Steinem, then editor of Ms magazine, when I was a
high school intern at a museum in New York.

It was 6 a.m. in the morning, Gloria was filming a documentary
and she was most definitely not a happy camper. If looks could
kill, half the camera crew and museum staff in attendance would
have been headed for cold slabs of marble in the city morgue.

Cold fish, I thought at the time. I did not take into
consideration that perhaps Gloria was not a morning person, that
she disliked the process of filming or that maybe she got out of
the wrong side of bed.

While the price of fame may be costly, I can assure Hubert of
how fickle its glare can be.

We only have to flick back a few months in our memory banks to
find the ultimate fly-by-night celebrity.

Does the name Steve Hanke ring a bell?

-- Bruce Emond