Dick Clark's Precarious Fringe Reality

Was anyone else appalled at seeing Dick Clark co-hosting the "New Years Rockin' Eve" on ABC last night? Granted, he is pretty much royalty when it comes to that kind of stuff, but he has clearly not recovered sufficiently from the stroke he had over a hear ago to be chaperoning millions in the migration from 2005 to 2006. It was like listening to Harry Caray at about inning 26 of a championship game. And watching "America's oldest teenager" was painful, too. Though I like a trainwreck as much as the next guy, I eventually had to switch over to Mr. Grates on my Nerves himself - Regis Philbin - watching Dick struggle to get thoughts out was just too much.

I'm assuming that Clark's main malady at this point is a motor problem, rather than some kind of aphasia. It seems like he knows what he wants to say; he just has trouble getting his muscles to do what needs to be done to get the sounds out properly. And this is what has me troubled.

It would be one thing if Clark were just a few bricks short of a load following his stroke. In that case, the responsibility would have to fall on his handlers (family or otherwise) for putting him out in the public's eye in such a condition. But if his mind is basically intact and his condition is mainly characterized by difficulty communicating, then the responsibility ostensibly falls on Mr. Clark.

I'm assuming he had to give the ultimate green light to do the show. Sure, the network folks were in the loop (at least according to the NY Times), but at the end of the day, unless there's some contract we don't know about, Dick Clark could have backed out and left the whole thing to the little Seacrest. Which brings me to my point.

Why would anyone in their right mind go out in front of eight million people in such a condition? (As I said, it doesn't seem like he's demented; he's just challenged to communicate.) Especially when not doing so means that everyone will remember you at the height of your game. Why not just walk away? Leave on a high note, as Costanza says. My guess, and it's only a guess, is that Dick Clark is addicted to the fanfare.

Considering that one of our most basic human drives is the need to belong, it isn't surprising that people who are accepted on a grand basis - that is, celebrities - find it difficult to be in situations where they aren't receiving their usual dosage of attention. I'm not slinging arrows here. I am truly shocked that any celebrities manage to get beyond this. Nevertheless, I think it's pretty unhealthy to need constant adulation in life. Mainly because, unless you're Bono or Tom Cruise, your downfall is pretty much inevitable.

I call this the precarious fringe of reality. What I mean is that reality is a multi-dimensional thing - what characterizes it at any given time is largely situation specific. For example, in places like Africa, death is a common occurrence - in the sense that most everyone experiences the death of people they know on a fairly regular basis. That, I would argue, is a pretty durable aspect of reality, or at least it has been for most of human history. However, here in the US and in other western countries, death is not so common. I'm 35 and no one close to me has ever died. And I'm not exceptional in that regard. I know lots of folks like myself. The point is that my experience is part of the same overall reality that includes Africa, but the reality I experience is on the fringes. That is, it certainly isn't the most pervasive part of reality - only a small percentage of humans ever even become aware of it. And it's definitiely precarious - primarily because any number of things could come along and wash it away - giant Tsunamis come to mind. The same thing is basically true with regard to the precarious fringe reality that is the celebrity's existence.

To be noticed, acknowledged, and deferred to by the vast majority of humans you encounter must be a real buzz. The caveman mind must be reeling from the firing of all of the brain's pleasure centers. And, just like with most everything else in life, the longer this kind of thing goes on, the more you come to expect it. And there? There be dragons, my friends.

The moment you come to expect a precarious fringe of reality to be your reality forever more, you're doomed - unless of course you have some way of ensuring that your reality remains intact. (Anyone ever heard of Neverland Ranch or the Kennedy Compound?) The lesson here is that we should be ever-aware of the vantage point from which we view reality. Are we inhabiting some distant outpost where all we can see are parts of reality that could evaporate before our eyes? Or are we grounded right in the middle of the cold, merciless, harsh reality that has been the setting of the human struggle for millions of years? The likelihood is that we're somewhere in between, which is just fine. What matters most is that we have some appreciation for where we are and for how things could be.

This is part of what some people call being centered or being down-to-earth. If you've got it good, you know you've got it good, and you appreciate it. Moreover, you don't let yourself get too reliant on how good you've got it. You can walk away if you need to. And sometimes, believe me, you need to. Like when you sound like you've had forty martinis, and your agent is pushing you to emcee a New Year's program on national TV. Only an addiction to a precarious fringe reality would allow someone in Dick Clark's condition to delude himself into believing he was fit for task. Too bad. But at least this disproves something I've suspected for years.

I was convinced up until last night that Dick Clark was actually a robot, or maybe a cyborg, or some kind of mechanical human-looking gizmo. I mean, come on. Look at the guy. He doesn't really age at all, and he seems to be able to connect with audiences of all ages indefinitely (at least he did before he went underground after the stroke). I figured the stroke was just a cover for some malfunction in his chip set. I figured the "He's not 100%" stuff leading up to last night was just hype designed to attract viewers who would then be blown away at his new hip chip that came complete with the ability to effortlessly drop an -izzle (a la Snoop Dogg) wherever he wanted. Alas, no dice. Clearly, I was way off. He really is human, and like most humans, he is but a moth to the flame of mass affection. And with all the grease in his hair, well...you get the idea.