The Guinea Pig Diaries (10 page)

I arrived at the set with my borrowed video camera. The show was spending the day filming at a beach in Brooklyn— which would be magically transformed into a posh Hamptons beach by the time it aired.

“They aren’t quite ready for you,” said the publicist.

The actresses were between scenes. I could interview them when filming was finished. About thirty yards down the beach, I spotted Sarah Jessica Parker (who played Carrie) talking to Kim Cattrall (the randy Samantha). A dozen greased-down extras in bikinis lounged on towels nearby.

“Do you want a pair of headphones?” the publicist asked me.

“Sure, thanks.”

She handed me one from her stash.
The headphones
are
tuned to the actresses’ mikes—it’s so the director and crew can listen to the dialogue. But here’s the thing: the mikes are rarely turned off. So you can often eavesdrop on whatever the actresses are saying between takes.

I put the headphones on and heard the following from Kim Cattrall:

“Why should I help this reporter with his goddamn proposal? It’s not my job.”

I pulled off the headphones. Oh man. This was not good. In fact, it could not be worse unless Kim Cattrall kicked me in the throat with her spiky Manolos.

“Um, I think I won’t do the proposal stuff.”

The publicist told me not to worry.

“Did you hear what she said?” I asked.

The publicist said that everyone but Kim Cattrall had signed off on the idea. It’d be fine.

I had a stress stomachache for the next four hours. But the publicist was right: the other three actresses recited their lines without complaint. Kristin Davis seemed to actually enjoy it, suggesting I do a few takes. Perhaps because she was the only single one at the time and so still had an untarnished view of marriage.

Kim Cattrall later apologized in her typically candid way: she explained she was “on the rag.”

The next week, I spliced my footage into a tape of an upcoming episode. I slid it into my twentieth-century VCR and played it for Julie. Unfortunately, I chose the least romantic episode in the history of
Sex and the City,
one that features Miranda in stirrups at her OB/GYN for much of the show. It finally cut from Miranda’s raised legs to Sarah Jessica Parker, who said, “My relationship with Mr. Big was going nowhere, and I had no possibility with A. J. Jacobs because he wants to
marry Julie Schoenberg.” To which Julie responded “What? . . . What’s going on? . . . Oh my God . . . Is this my proposal? . . . But I’m wearing my ex-boyfriend’s T-shirt!”

For some reason, that was the first thing that popped into Julie’s brain. Then she hugged me. Then she demanded that I get down on my knees and propose like a proper gentleman. I couldn’t delegate it all to the videocassette.

It worked out okay, but it was a humbling experience. I got schooled in my place in the caste system of fame. It’s not the place of the Vaishyas to ask the Brahmins for favors.

The night of the Oscars, however, I’m on the other side. I’m the one getting requests. I’m the aristocracy. “Noah, come meet my friend!” “Noah, an autograph for my sister? She’s a huge fan.”

My friend Jessica Shaw—a fellow
Entertainment Weekly
reporter covering the event—has joined me at this point and is acting as my publicist: “We’ve got to keep moving, people,” says Jessica, who’s wearing a bright red dress. “Got to keep moving.”

Things are going smoothly. Nothing can stop me. Across the lobby, I spot Geoffrey Rush, my co-star. Should I say hello? Yes, why not! I wait for him to finish his conversation, then approach.

“’Ello, Geoffrey!”

No response.

“It’s me! ’Ow’s tricks, mate?”

He looks at me. Alarm spreads over his face—the exact same expression my son had when he first saw the child-catcher in
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
I’ve gotten so cocky, I forgot that I don’t exactly resemble Noah Taylor. I forgot Geoffrey Rush actually knows the
real
Noah Taylor.

Geoffrey glances around, hoping to lock eyes with a security guard. And then backs away without a word.

Shaken, I head back into the crowd for the deep-tissue ego massage of my adoring fans. “Congratulations, man.” “Wow.”

The (late) comedian Chris Farley grabs my shoulder as I walk by. “You were wonderful,” he gushes, adding that he loved the piano playing. “Well,” I confess, “that was done by a double.”

I get a few more “I’m a fan of your work” remarks but it’s almost over. Billy Crystal is about to crack his last joke. It’s the usual four-hour triathlon for those watching at home, but I could have kept going for a day and a half.

The theater doors open and those of us in the lobby are engulfed by a throng of exiting actors and hangers-on. I’m pushed down a hallway. I accidentally step on the long train of the green dress worn by Jada Pinkett Smith, wife of Will Smith. The dress catches and she jerks back.

“Watch the dress! Watch the dress! Don’t step on the dress!” Will Smith says. He isn’t angry, just authoritative, the same way he handled the panicky crowds in
Independence Day.
He’s even charismatic when he scolding you, that guy.

My friend Jessica and I are limoed to an after party. I give respectful nods to the Gold’s Gym rats at the velvet ropes. I bask in the giddy welcome from publicists with headsets and clipboards.

Inside, more fans. I meet a screenwriter who tells me I
have
to go to Burning Man. I make sure to take time out and thank the cater waiters for bringing me my chicken satay. Noblesse oblige. Jessica and I linger for a while. But we both sense the night is over.

I go to my hotel room, undo my bow tie, and collapse on my bed, knowing that people like me, really like me. Or at least someone who closely resembles me.

For two days after the Oscars, I am on a high. I feel different,
special. I get annoyed at the indignities of everyday life. Why am I waiting on line at the pharmacy? With all these . . .
people.
It’s so . . .
ordinary
. . . Don’t they know who I am?

I mean, I know, deep down, that all the gushing at the Oscars wasn’t actually for me. But the intensity of the praise was such that it penetrated on some level. As with my stint as a hot woman, the lines between me and my subject have blurred.

Then the crash. The inevitable and depressing acceptance of my anonymity. You know what? I deserve to wait on line. I’m not special. Paul Hogan is not a fan of mine. In the span of three days, I go through a microwave version of the famous person’s life arc: from a nobody to a god on earth to a has-been.

CODA

My night of fame put me in an altered state. I was drunk with fame, and not just buzzed, but seven-vodka-tonics drunk. The question is, Would I want to be drunk all the time?

I don’t think so. I hope not.

Why? Because fame messes with your mind—even the fleeting version I had. In fact, if you believe a Cornell professor named Robert Millman, I might have been suffering from an honest-to-God mental disorder. Acquired Situational Narcissism. This is a multisyllabic way of saying that celebrities often become wankers. When you’re famous, when everybody stares at you, flatters you, insulates you, you start to think you’re the center of the world (a thought that has a grain of truth to it).

You gain the classic narcissism symptoms: lack of empathy, grandiose fantasies, rage, and excessive need for approval. It’s why, as Stephen Sherrill writes in the
New York Times,
celebrities are so prone to throwing tantrums, getting married in the
morning and divorced by the afternoon, demanding a private chef for their pet ocelot, and so on.

(Incidentally, not everyone buys the notion that people
become
more narcissistic as they gain fame.
An opposing study argues
that narcissists flock to show business in the first place. They arrive in Hollywood pre-deranged. Especially reality show stars. See note in back.)

You can see the quandary here. Fame makes people role models, whether they like it or not. It also probably makes them immature schmucks, if they weren’t already. Therefore, our role models are immature schmucks. Which then creates a new generation of immature schmucks. Which is how we’ve arrived at the Kardashian sisters.

I don’t know what the solution is. Term limits on celebrity? Five years as a movie star, and then you’re shipped off to work at a T.G.I. Friday’s? Should we boycott anyone famous who throws iPhones at their assistants? Should we do what the Romans did with their generals during the triumphal march? They put a slave behind the general to whisper in his ear that he was mortal, so his ego wouldn’t expand.

Or maybe we should only support humble celebrities. Not all famous people are twisted monsters. Consider this: After the Oscars, I got a call from Noah Taylor’s agent. Apparently Noah was shy and not into all the pageantry, so he was grateful I was there at the Oscars to represent him. He figured better me than him.

Part of my quest: Find the most rational toothpaste on earth.

My brain is deeply flawed. And no offense, but so is yours.

Your brain is not rational. It’s packed with dozens of misleading biases. It’s home to an alarming number of false assumptions and warped memories. It processes data all wrong and makes terrible decisions. Problem is, the brain didn’t come to us fully formed from a lab at MIT. The brain is merely an ad hoc collection of half-assed solutions that have built up over millions of years of evolution. It’s Scotch tape and bubble gum. If it were a car, it would not be a Porsche; it’d be a 1976 Dodge Dart with faulty brakes and a missing headlight.

As one scientist puts it, we’ve got Stone Age minds living in silicon-age bodies. Our brains were formed to deal with Paleolithic problems. When my brain gets scared, it causes a spike in adrenaline, which might have been helpful when facing a mastodon but is highly counterproductive when facing a snippy salesman at the Verizon outlet.

And yet we remain enamored of our ancient responses. These last few years have been a golden age for our most primal impulses. We recently had a president who spent eight years leading from his gut, and look where we are: a financial meltdown and a world filled with America haters. We’ve got Malcolm Gladwell’s
Blink,
a best seller with a subtle thesis that has unfortunately been boiled down to the pro-intuition message “Don’t think, blink.” It’s given birth to a million stupid decisions.

I’ve had enough. I’m going to try to revamp my brain. Bring it into the modern era. I’m going to root out all the irrational biases and Darwinian anachronisms one by one and retrain my brain to be a perfectly rational machine. I will be the most logical man alive, unswayed by unconscious impulses. I’ll use any means necessary—vigilance, repression, science. I’ll also use duct tape, forty tubes of toothpaste, and a shroud over my cereal bowl. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

THE LAKE WOBEGON EFFECT

I came up with Project Rationality a couple of months ago. I’d always considered myself pretty logical, more Spock than Homer, more ego than id.
But then I read a book
called
Nudge,
by Richard Thaler and Cass Sunstein, which details the alarming number of built-in irrational quirks of the brain. Then I read another recent book called
Predictably Irrational.
Then another. And another. Turns out brain-bashing is an exploding genre, right up there with tomes about inspirational dogs and atheism.

If you read these books all in a row, you will feel like amputating your head. You learn your brain is programmed to be bigoted and confirm stereotypes. It’s easily fooled by anecdotal evidence. Or a pretty face. Or a guy in a uniform. It’s a master of rationalization. It believes what it hears. It overreacts. It’s hopelessly incompetent at distinguishing fact from fiction. There are scores of “cognitive biases” identified by researchers (Wikipedia lists more than ninety of them).

When I told my brother-in-law, Eric, a behavioral economist at Columbia, about my plan to eliminate all cognitive errors from my brain for a month, he chuckled. He said I was suffering from the Lake Wobegon Effect: Our brains are delusively cocky. We all think we’re better-looking, smarter, and more virtuous than we are. (It’s named for Garrison Keillor’s fictional town, where “all the children are above average.”)

“You’re vastly overestimating your abilities,” he said.

THE AVAILABILITY FALLACY

I wake up on the first morning of Project Rationality. I’ve come armed. I’ve got a folded three-page list of cognitive errors, more than one hundred of them that I’ve cobbled together from books and Wikipedia. My method will be this: I’ll analyze every activity throughout the day, see which blunder I’m committing, and try to correct it.

In the kitchen, I find Julie
reading the
New York Times.
That’s trouble right there. Journalism is an enemy of rationality.

What makes news? The unusual and the spectacular, which by their nature distort reality and pervert our decisions. You read headlines like 15
KILLED IN PLANE CRASH IN WYOMING
. You don’t read headlines like
ANOTHER
2,000
DIED OF HEART DISEASE YESTERDAY
. This leads to the Availability Fallacy. Our lazy mind gloms on to the most vivid, emotional examples. When we think of danger, we think of hideous plane crashes or acts of terrorism, even though boring old cars kill eighty-four times more people.