Let’s face it, we’re a nation of voyeurs.

Celebrities are the bread and butter of TV and social media. Actors, singers, dancers, jocks — even flash-in-the-pan headline-grabbers — are the food and fuel, if not the lifeblood of This Great Land of Ours.

We track their lives with a sniper’s focus and a groupie’s devotion.

Worst of all, ultimately, we’re not fans, but addicts. It doesn’t matter what goes on with the stars; we devour every morsel of it and then move on, like gourmands at an all-you-can-eat buffet. Marriages, divorces, affairs, births, deaths, season’s greetings, spousal beatings — don’t none of it make a nevermind what’s happening with them. All that matters is it keeps flowing with the same frequency (and often the same contents) as a metropolitan sewer.

Concomitantly, the celebs are as obsessive and shameless about getting their lives in the news as their fans are about witnessing them. Or at least that’s the case with the bush leaguers, because if they hit the Big Time, a sudden shift takes place. As if by the flip of a switch, now they’re as “shy” as a blushing bride on The Big Night.

The difference between the bride and them is they’re not blushing. Nor are they shy. Quite the contrary, they’re often aggro to the point of undisguised viciousness, punching out photographers, surrounding themselves with roid-ragin’ bodyguards and suing the bejammers out of any reporter who snoops on their privacy or dares to portray them as anything less than divine.

Wait a minute!

Hold your hosses!

Stop the presses!

Are these the same people who spent years endlessly giving interviews, were on every talk show, advertised any product, jumped into fountains nekkid at film festivals? Shameless publicity hounds who if they’d had one shred of modesty it would’ve died of loneliness? And now all they want is to have their privacy respected?

You bet they are.

So what caused The Big Shift?

Only one thing. Or more exactly, only MILLIONS of one thing, namely The Long Green.

Not that they were ever the retiring types. They had star quality from the get-go. So at the first grade’s Christmas pageant, while we were staring at our shoes, forgetting lyrics and singing off key, they were belting out “Frosty the Snowman,” on key, and loud enough to deafen the parents in the auditorium’s last row.

And that was just the start.

As the years went by and we Plain Janes and Bland Dans stayed undistinguished and indistinguishable, the stars fairly oozed charisma. They starred in all the school plays, soloed in glee club and danced up a storm at the sock hops. Then they graduated and left Shlabatkaville, to pursue a degree in — what else but — theater.

Graduating from college with highest honors, they did what all future stars have to do — they moved to The Big City. There, they busted their humps, working low-end, dead-end jobs, taking singing, acting and dancing lessons, and going to endless unsuccessful auditions, ad nauseum. And all the while they survived on ramen and a persistence none of us could maintain, because the sad truth is the odds of them making The Big Time were nil.

There are of course different levels of success … and failure. At the top of the pyramid and splashed all over the fan mags covers are the household names. At the bottom are the poor sods who gave up so early they became has-beens before they were ever never-was. And in between is a range of talent and success from the pathetic to the outstanding.

Along with these different degrees or success are different personalities. Some are sheer delights; others are mean-spirited swine. About 15 years ago I had the dubious pleasure of seeing of the the latter in action.

–

Small town, big ego

–

I was in Blue Moon with one of my former students, a great kid named Will. We were mid-chat when he suddenly said, “Hey, there’s So-and-So at that table by the window.”

I snuck a glance.

“Who is he?” I said.

“You don’t know?” he said.

“I don’t,” I said. “And is there a reason I SHOULD?”

“Yeah,” he said. “He’s on _______,” and he named some TV program I never heard of.

“My girlfriend loves that show,” he said. “I’m gonna ask him for his autograph.”

With that, he grabbed a pen and piece of paper and stood up.

“Good luck,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t need it.

Unfortunately, he did.

When he got about 10 feet away from the guy’s table, the Big Shot held up his hand like a traffic cop and barked at the kid to naff off. And he did it loud enough for the whole room to hear.

The kid came back and dropped in his chair, the picture of failure, gloom and embarrassment.

“Jeeze,” he said, “I didn’t mean to bother him. I just thought –”

“You DIDN’T bother him,” I interrupted. “Matter of fact, you made his day.”

“I did?” he said. “How?”

“Cuz you recognized him and made him feel important,” I said.

“So why’d he shut me down like that?” he said.

“Cuz he’s a schmuck,” I said.

And while that’s hardly a clinical assessment, I’ll stand by it.

That guy knew exactly what he was doing, putting down some kid who he could’ve made feel good, and without almost any time or effort. He did it just to make himself feel important — a Star.

So how much of a star WAS he?

Just of out curiosity, from time to time I’d Google him and his career as it followed its trajectory, which unsurprisingly was downward.

The year after his stellar Blue Moon performance, that TV series was cancelled after a three-year run. Then came a series of walk-ons on various TV shows ’till they dried up. Then there was a long hiatus before he once again was once again on the boards as Stanley Kowalski in the Sunset Playhouse in Elm Grove, Wisconsin (pop. 6500). Then he and a bunch of fellow luminaries were the stars of the grand opening of a Ford dealership in Sandusky, Ohio. The last mention of him was as The Grand Marshall in the Frontier Days parade in Grangeville, Idaho (pop. 3400). Yee-HA! Ride ’em cowboy!

So much for him and his importance.

(Seide note: When Will was in college, his hobby was mycology, and he went on to become a nationally-recognized expert and a grower of exotic mushrooms. His girlfriend became an RN. ‘Nuff said)

–

Don’t act, just BE

–

Don’t get me wrong — there ARE important people. And I’m lucky enough have a bunch in my life …

First, there are the people I love and like who are always there, one way or another, and always will be.

Then there are folks who are situationally important:

When my cellar flooded from a nightmare mid-winter thaw, our firemen were the most important folks in my life.

Whenever I’ve had tooth trauma, it’s been Roger Neill or Granville Small to the rescue.

Every time I’ve needed an original, funky drawing for one of my cockamamie endeavors, Bruce Young has come through.

And when the snow is just too damned much for my aged corpus, Jason Wamsganz plows me out, without my asking — and is not just The Man of the Hour, but The Man of the Winter.

Suffice it to say, I’ve too many more of my important peeps to list in this column.

But that said, over the course of my life I’ve never needed an actor. However, I’m sure other people HAVE needed them, so actors are important too. Luckily, the world is big enough for all of us.

Ultimately, ALL of us are important. And that’s a good thing.

But (as the Blue Moon Big Shot showed) it’s not a good thing to ACT important.