Read Online The Guinea Pig Diaries by A. J. Jacobs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A. J. Jacobs
Ads: Link
from A to Z.”
The answer was N-E-R-D.
Huh. Nerd. I would have preferred my actual name, but it was something. Just to be certain, I e-mailed the crossword editor, Will Shortz—whom I had once met at a crossword puzzle tournament—and asked if maybe I was the nerd in question; he said I wasn’t consciously the inspiration, but that I might havebeen an unconscious factor.
Might have been an unconscious factor.
That’s something, right? Good enough for me!
3. And finally, there was the awkward, Borscht Belt-like exchange with a passenger in the New York subway. “What do you know about Q?” he asked me.
Hmm. The Q train. “I think you can catch it on Fifty-seventh and Seventh.”
He paused. “No, the letter Q. What do you know about the letter Q.”
He had seen me on
Book TV
talking about how I read the encyclopedia, and thought it’d be fun to quiz me about one of the volumes. I was so disoriented, I couldn’t process it. I just don’t get recognized in public.
As for actual fame, that’s about it. I’ve published two books that sold moderately well, but they haven’t made me famous. Not in the real hounded-by-paparazzi sense of the word. On a good day, I’m “somewhat noted in certain quarters.”
But if actual fame has eluded me, I have gotten to experience an odd simulacrum of fame thanks to an immersion experiment. The result was, as they say during
Entertainment Tonight
interviews—
surreal.
And it also convinced me that lack of fame can be a good thing. Or so I’ve told myself, anyway.
This experiment was actually one of my first, back in 1997. Early in my career, I worked as a writer for
Entertainment Weekly
magazine. My job usually consisted of interviewing B-list TV celebrities, writing down the type of salad they were eating, assembling a few quotes, and passing it off as an article.
But not always. There were exceptions. My most memorableassignment came in January 1997. The indie movie
Shine
had recently been released to an orgy of critical praise. Maybe you remember it? It was based on the true story of Australian pianist David Helfgott, who suffered from schizophrenia.
The adult Helfgott was played brilliantly by a stammering, tic-afflicted Geoffrey Rush. But the younger Helfgott—the post-adolescent Helfgott—was played by an up-and-coming Australian actor named Noah Taylor.
As it turned out, I looked exactly like Noah Taylor. Or at least like his slightly older brother. We had the same thin face, the same gangly body, and the same-sized nose, which in polite circles is called “prominent.”
Even more striking, though, is that Noah Taylor and I shared the same haircut and eyeglasses. For reasons I’m still puzzling out, in my mid-twenties I decided to let my hair grow down to my shoulders. This wasn’t cool long hair, mind you. It was shapeless and stringy, like Ben Franklin or a meth addict. And the glasses? They were thick, black, and clunky. I suppose I was going for a retro intellectual vibe, something in the Allen Ginsberg area. What I got was Orville Redenbacher.
Julie has told me several times that if I’d asked her out during my meth-addicted-popcorn-king era, we would not be married today. She would have told me that she was getting over a relationship and/or life-threatening, still-contagious illness.
The only upside, if you can call it that: my status as Noah Taylor’s doppelganger, whose character sported the same unconventional look. From the first weekend
Shine
opened, I’d hear it at least once a day: “Hey, you look like the guy from
Shine.”
I’d humbly nod my thanks. If I was feeling generous, I’d mime playing some piano keys.
My editors at
Entertainment Weekly
noticed the resemblance as well, and were determined to exploit it. Turned out the real Noah Taylor was skipping the Academy Awards—the film was nominated, he wasn’t, and he’d decided to stay in Australia. So my bosses came up with a plan: send me to the Oscars under-cover. As a star.
The answer was N-E-R-D.
Huh. Nerd. I would have preferred my actual name, but it was something. Just to be certain, I e-mailed the crossword editor, Will Shortz—whom I had once met at a crossword puzzle tournament—and asked if maybe I was the nerd in question; he said I wasn’t consciously the inspiration, but that I might havebeen an unconscious factor.
Might have been an unconscious factor.
That’s something, right? Good enough for me!
3. And finally, there was the awkward, Borscht Belt-like exchange with a passenger in the New York subway. “What do you know about Q?” he asked me.
Hmm. The Q train. “I think you can catch it on Fifty-seventh and Seventh.”
He paused. “No, the letter Q. What do you know about the letter Q.”
He had seen me on
Book TV
talking about how I read the encyclopedia, and thought it’d be fun to quiz me about one of the volumes. I was so disoriented, I couldn’t process it. I just don’t get recognized in public.
As for actual fame, that’s about it. I’ve published two books that sold moderately well, but they haven’t made me famous. Not in the real hounded-by-paparazzi sense of the word. On a good day, I’m “somewhat noted in certain quarters.”
But if actual fame has eluded me, I have gotten to experience an odd simulacrum of fame thanks to an immersion experiment. The result was, as they say during
Entertainment Tonight
interviews—
surreal.
And it also convinced me that lack of fame can be a good thing. Or so I’ve told myself, anyway.
This experiment was actually one of my first, back in 1997. Early in my career, I worked as a writer for
Entertainment Weekly
magazine. My job usually consisted of interviewing B-list TV celebrities, writing down the type of salad they were eating, assembling a few quotes, and passing it off as an article.
But not always. There were exceptions. My most memorableassignment came in January 1997. The indie movie
Shine
had recently been released to an orgy of critical praise. Maybe you remember it? It was based on the true story of Australian pianist David Helfgott, who suffered from schizophrenia.
The adult Helfgott was played brilliantly by a stammering, tic-afflicted Geoffrey Rush. But the younger Helfgott—the post-adolescent Helfgott—was played by an up-and-coming Australian actor named Noah Taylor.
As it turned out, I looked exactly like Noah Taylor. Or at least like his slightly older brother. We had the same thin face, the same gangly body, and the same-sized nose, which in polite circles is called “prominent.”
Even more striking, though, is that Noah Taylor and I shared the same haircut and eyeglasses. For reasons I’m still puzzling out, in my mid-twenties I decided to let my hair grow down to my shoulders. This wasn’t cool long hair, mind you. It was shapeless and stringy, like Ben Franklin or a meth addict. And the glasses? They were thick, black, and clunky. I suppose I was going for a retro intellectual vibe, something in the Allen Ginsberg area. What I got was Orville Redenbacher.
Julie has told me several times that if I’d asked her out during my meth-addicted-popcorn-king era, we would not be married today. She would have told me that she was getting over a relationship and/or life-threatening, still-contagious illness.
The only upside, if you can call it that: my status as Noah Taylor’s doppelganger, whose character sported the same unconventional look. From the first weekend
Shine
opened, I’d hear it at least once a day: “Hey, you look like the guy from
Shine.”
I’d humbly nod my thanks. If I was feeling generous, I’d mime playing some piano keys.
My editors at
Entertainment Weekly
noticed the resemblance as well, and were determined to exploit it. Turned out the real Noah Taylor was skipping the Academy Awards—the film was nominated, he wasn’t, and he’d decided to stay in Australia. So my bosses came up with a plan: send me to the Oscars under-cover. As a star.
Similar Books
