What would you do if your date with a celebrity didn’t go the way you expected?
Would you chalk it up to experience, dining out on the story over Friday night drinks with the girls? (“Ha, ha. I thought he was going to be my gay new best friend and introduce me to influential people and help me get a sexy media job in Toronto. But—can you believe it—he rubbed my back and grabbed my ass and, worst of all, put my designer handbag on the floor!”)
You could do that.
Or you could write a blog for thousands of people to read and forward to their friends and coworkers, and by disguising the celebrity in question so transparently, you may just as well have rented a billboard on the TransCanada Highway that says, “Famous Canadian radio personality is not gay. But he is creepy, can’t take a hint and wears way too much cologne.” Carla Ciccone chose to do the latter. She posted her “It happened to me” piece on xojane.com. It has been making the rounds among Canada’s ink-stained wretches for weeks now, gaining velocity like a hurricane. Schadenfreude gelato, anyone? You could say that any public figure is fair game for a pillorying, particularly when he is ill-mannered. Yet, other than her 15 minutes, what has Ciccone really accomplished?
Neither she nor “Keith” (the pseudonym she uses for her allegedly lecherous date), come out of this one smelling like peonies. Keith may douse himself in cologne, (who knows, maybe he’s got a deviated septum or something and can’t smell), but Ciccone carries her own whiff: eau de tacky.
Who hasn’t been on a lousy date, grateful for that blessed moment when it’s finally over and you turn the key in your apartment door and enter, alone? But not many of us choose to make a federal case out of it. The only reason Ciccone wrote about the experience and the only reason it got published is because a celebrity was involved. (Two celebrities, if you count her name-dropping of Jake Gyllenhaal in the second line.)
If Ciccone set out to shame Keith, on some level she succeeded. (If by now you haven’t deduced who Keith might be, look for clues amongst the reader comments on Ciccone’s article). Because, unfortunately from now on it will be impossible to listen to his radio program without also visualizing his ham-fisted dating manners and wondering if he’s gassing the studio technicians with his pungent after-shave. (At least no gerbils are involved!)
As for Ciccone, there’s no reason to ever hear from her again. She dragged them both through the muck, but, since no one knows or cares who she is, Keith takes the brunt of the attack. When Mark Chapman killed John Lennon, he said that The Beatles changed the world and now he had changed The Beatles. By comparison these two Canucks are small potatoes. But what has Ciccone really gained by her treachery? A few more readers and a lot more animus. As for Keith, he’s probably no Lennon but, hey folks, give peace a chance.