Well, it’s official.  I’m a girl who craves a happy ending.  Not that I ever really doubted it.  But, Sunday afternoon, as I was lounging on my red couch (that severely needs to be replaced), I switched over to the AMC channel.  A list of upcoming movies flashed on the screen.  It was a day of Paul Newman movies…a tribute to the recently lost - and incredibly handsome actor.  The next showing?  Hud.  One of my father’s favorite movies.  I’d never seen the classic, and in an attempt to dive into my father’s early adult head, I decided to continue my couch-lazing and take it all in.

The movie began.  Hud’s teenage nephew, Lonnie, disembarked from an ancient bus onto the streets of the small Texas town in which he lived.  He was on a quest to find his uncle, who had apparently left a path of destruction behind him after a night of partying in the tiny town outside his father’s ranch.  It was clear that Hud was a force to be reckoned with.  His well-deserved reputation seemed both revered and hated by the townspeople, and as his nephew tracked him down in the light of early morning - pulling on his boots as he exited the home of a local married woman - my stomach turned a flip, then a flop.  Because even in the poor lighting of an old black and white film, this man was breathtakingly beautiful.  With a cocky smile and crystal clear eyes, he expertly sidestepped the wrath of the just-arrived-home husband, blamed his presence on his unsuspecting nephew, and screeched off with the confused boy in tow.

Without the luxury of a commercial to take it all in (something meant to be a “plus” on this channel), I lay there wondering, what was it about this man, this character, that so captivated my father?  I suspect my father was, as a young man, much like he is today. Unrelentingly moral, balanced with just the right mix of bone dry humor and a hint of mischievousness.  Nothing like Hud really, who was anything but moral…but maybe that was the appeal.  There’s something about a man, any person really, who doesn’t give a damn how his actions affect the people and the world around him.  We witness their outlandish antics with judgment and sometimes disgust…but we watch, don’t we?  We give them power.  Because there’s something incredibly interesting about the train wreck.  We wonder how they got there…to this place where empathy and foresight are nonexistent.  Was it a tough childhood? In Hud’s case, he lost his mother at a young age.  He killed his brother in a car accident.  We have empathy, even though they may not.  Through our outward mask of disgust, we root for them to climb into the cacoon a slimy worm, and reemerge a beautiful butterfly.

“What is it about Hud that you liked so much?” I finally asked my father, tired of formulating my own baseless opinion.

“It was the setting.”

“Really?” I asked.  “What do you mean?”

“It was so much like where I grew up.  A small, sometimes lifeless town.  Not much going on.  The landscape not horrible, but somewhat barren and sad.  And the people…Hud’s father…a quiet moral man.  A farmer…rancher.  I knew a hundred men like that.  I still remember where I was when I saw that movie,” he said.

“Where?”

“In Lubbock, Texas, at a drive-in movie theatre.  It was 1963.”

“Who were you there with?” I asked, always digging for dirt.

“No one,” he said.  “I was by myself.  I wanted to see it…so I went.  I thought it was the most amazing movie I’d ever seen.  Still do.”

“Why?”

“It was so expertly cast.  You hated Hud, but Newman played him so perfectly…you wanted him to succeed…you wanted him to finally ‘get it’.”

“But he didn’t,” I said.  “I hated that ending.  I wanted him to get it.”

“But that’s life, kiddo.  Some folks never do.”

“I think you’re like Lonnie,” I said.  “He looked up to Hud in a way…he, like everyone else, was drawn to his ‘bad boy’ ways. He wanted to hang with him, thought he wanted to live that exciting life.  But in the end, he was more like his grandfather…a moral man, and he finally realized that Hud was just pathetic…not someone to be revered or to emulate.  Someone to pity.”

I thought of my dad watching that movie - alone at that Lubbock drive-in.  He must have been months, or possibly weeks away from marrying my mother.  He must’ve seen that movie as his past, and wondered what would happen as he looked toward the future - much like Lonnie did as he walked away from his old life, and Hud.  Just a young man, hoping to do better, scared that he may not be able to.  But with that youthful confidence we all wish we could regain.  The confidence which stems from inexperience…naivete.

If I think about where Lonnie’s life may have taken him…I see success.  Because he would likely take with him the best of all those from his past…even Hud.  Just a little bit of arrogance and that certain twinkle, but balanced by his grandfather’s goodness and hope and a responsibility to do right.  I think that’s why, in the end, I liked Lonnie so much.  He reminded me of my father.  And if I followed Lonnie’s life in my mind…one that may have taken a very similar path to my dad’s, I see a happy ending.  I get my happy ending.

Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be famous?  Do you imagine glamorous movie premiers or fan-filled stadiums…dream homes in exotic locations, private jets, fabulous parties and an equally famous significant other?

When I think about it (I mean, why wouldn’t I…I’m clearly teetering on the precipice of stardom) I shiver at the idea of losing that which we all take for granted…our privacy.  And privacy, well let’s just go ahead and tag that little freedom as priceless.  Consider, for instance, a simple trip to the grocery store…something I currently rank just above packing or suffering a compound fracture.  Were I famous - if my every move was scrutinized by the media or fans or the cashier - this formerly mundane, repetitive task would likely take on new meaning.  It would become a freedom lost…another piece of normalcy snatched from my perfectly manicured celebrity hands.  And I would sit around dreaming of the old days - when I could slap on some lip gloss and a ball cap and anonamously pop into Kroger for ice cream sandwich bars and some Playtex tampons.  Think about it.  Could Jennifer Aniston do so…unscathed?  Nope.  Her trip would be documented by the papparazzi and her purchases scrutinized as poor nutrition (followed by speculation on her body fat content) and environmentally hazardous feminine care products.

“Why all the talk about the pitfalls of fame, Nikki?  Did you finally sign up for those guitar lessons?  Did a music producer catch your rendition of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun at Starlight Karaoke?”

No.  I saw Brad Womack at the Porch Swing on Saturday.

“Who is Brad Womack?”

He was The Bachelor, you foolish, foolish girl/boy.  You know…the beautiful Austin singleton that “broke DeAnna’s heart”.  The one whose evilness we’re reminded of at the beginning of each Bachelorette episode.  Except that I never considered him evil.  I actually thought he was quite honest and brought a little street cred to that show.  He proved that happy endings may be encouraged…but they’re certainly not demanded…and therefore, not scripted.  And, let’s be honest, the show really played up that drama and is likely reaping the viewership benefits this season.

“But he’s not some big-time celebrity…he’s a reality star.”

I think you’re helping me to prove my point.  He isn’t  uber-famous.  You’re correct.  But it didn’t matter.  When he walked into that bar, all conversation stopped.  All eyes focused on him.  Then came the hushed tones, the whispered words…the moment in time he can’t escape.  He’s “that guy”…the one that left both ladies at the temporary, flower-draped final rose podium.

From the peanut gallery at Porch Swing:

“That’s the Bachelor!”

“I hear he’s got major issues…total commitment-phobe.”

“I heard he’s really a woman.  I mean, look at those pecs.”

 Can you imagine?  Try to toss aside the promise of amazing perks and really  think about this.  Every single place you went…every restaraunt, bar, sporting event…even extended family gatherings…there would be the eyes, the whispers, the physical assessment.  Sitting by yourself - for just a few moments of solitude - would be impossible…an opening for fans to surround you, talk to you, touch you, demand your autograph.  And if you want a sliver of normalcy, you have to do as Brad did.  You sit at the picnic table in the far corner, your back to the crowd.  Keep your head down, pray your bladder can hold out and focus only on those you came with.

Look, this is no slam on those interested onlookers…I was one of them.  It’s human nature.  Like rubbernecking or needing to pee once comfortable in your seat at the movie theater.  When I was living in NYC, celebrity sightings were fairly common, but the excitement was never lost.  In fact, a few weeks after settling into my tiny Upper West Side apartment, I was walking about, exploring the neighborhood, and I almost collided with Matt Dillon.   Let me repeat that.  I almost collided with Matt Dillon.  My first love.  The one who used to make my loins ache.  The one who caused my sister and I to risk grounding as we snuck downstairs, late at night, to watch a feather-haired, full-lipped adolescent Matt de-flower the equally feather-haired Kristi McNichol in Little Darlings.  Sigh.  Anyway, you can imagine the firestorm of mini heart-attacks that resulted during that near collision.  But I played it cool…as you are required to do in Manhattan.  I gave a little half-smile, cast my eyes downward, and walked on.  I also summoned every ounce of pride in my body to aid me in resisting the overpowering urge to turn, hop into Matt’s arms, wrap my legs around his waist, and never let go.  I’m still not sure I made the right decision.

“What’s your point, Nikki?”

The point is, Matt knew I was freaking out.  Even though I didn’t show it…he knew.  Add to that the throngs of others he passes each and every day…many of whom are not so respectful of his privacy, and you have a life on display…a life without privacy in public.  And, on occasion, that’s gotta really suck.

Back to Bachelor.  Whose arms, by the way, were the size of a small, mountainous country (see…there’s always the physical assessment).  I’ve been asked by a number of folks if I would ever consider going on the Bachelor…some have even threatened to send in an application without my knowledge.  But after I squeezed both of my hands, really hard around their neck…for 45 seconds (or however long it took for their eyes to start bulging a bit), they decided otherwise.  Because, “no”.  No!  From a purely logical point of view, I believe the odds of a successful Bachelor union are somewhere in the range of 10 to 20 percent of those in the real world.  Add to that the possibility of rejection - in front of millions, or seeing the reality of your kissing technique on a 50-something inch clear-as-crystal plasma TV, or realizing you’re the oldest person there (which brings those odds down to about 2 percent), or (and this is the worst of all), being trapped in a mansion with whiny, bitchy, conniving crazies.  I would be arrested, for maiming a crazy, and then I’d be seen as the crazy.  And I would be in jail.  So, no, I don’t want to be a contestant on The Bachelor.  I want to meet my one and only the old-fashioned way…by first dating slyly self-obsessed commitment phobes, flirting with misery and finally learning that I want the opposite.  Then I will stumble across the other anomaly…the one who’s been waiting for me…and not a second of it will be caught on tape.

If you love what you do, and that thing brings you public recognition or maybe even celebrity, maybe what you give up is worth what you gain.  But if it’s just about the money, the fancy home, the fame…you’ll find out, really quickly, what really matters…and you just might find yourself hiding in the corner of a bar…with your back to the crowd.