The YouTube Dream

    New videos were displayed on the familiar YouTube homepage: “Jude Law for Internet for Peace,” “Ohio State Mascot Brutus Buckeye Attacked,” “Gaga for Tight Booty Workout,” and “OK Go – White Knuckles – Official Video.” The videos represented just about every possible interest a viewer could have. With a click on the “search” box, two teenage girls giggled at Will Ferrell’s impression of George Bush, watched the trailer for the new Harry Potter movie, glanced at a homemade video of a cat dancing to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”, and commented on how cute those clips were from cousin John’s fifth birthday party. It was obviously a little too much time on the computer, as the mom of the house pleaded with her daughter to “do something more productive.” The mom, however, grudgingly gave permission to watch just one more video (anything to coax her off of that computer and, most likely, onto her iPod or cell phone). Immediately, they found the catchy Justin Beiber music video, “Baby ft. Ludacris”.

    This was, to say the least, a well-watched video. Twenty minutes before, it had reported 331, 097, 742 views. Now there were 72, 020 more. Justin Beiber was a YouTube hit, a baby face with the voice of a pop angel. Admittedly, it was a bit girly, but the way he could sing those melismas so clearly without the aid of electronic adjustments made him even more impressive. At least, that’s what Usher thought. The girls loved the way Justin’s hair flipped perfectly up the side of his face. It reminded them of High School Musical’s Zac Efron, but Justin Beiber was only sixteen years old and had only become a celebrity the year before. In fact, next to this blue-tinted video icon of Justin dancing in a low-lit bowling alley was another video entitled “How Justin Beiber Was Discovered,” an interview posted by CBS. The girls decided to watch this instead; they couldn’t remember why Justin Beiber was famous.

    After watching the video, a duration of two minutes and thirty-eight seconds, fame seemed more attainable than ever. Justin Beiber came from an obscure town in Canada without too many luxuries, just a couple of musical instruments and posters of his music idols. He was interested in pop music from a young age, and his single mom must have encouraged him every single day to practice singing and believe in his dreams. He never thought he would be famous. He simply liked to sing for his own entertainment. He was exactly like any other kid who liked to pick up a microphone and pretend he was the star of a music video. However, unlike any other kid, Justin Beiber’s internet videos produced, practically overnight, a fan club and a manager who felt he had some talent. Soon after, the pop kings signed him to a label, and he became a nation-wide teenage sensation selling out concerts and raising the blood pressure of every thirteen-year-old girl who screamed when he scooped up to those high pristine notes on the loudspeakers of the 'R & B' stage. Justin Beiber was a real Cinderella story to all those dreamers wishing to spring from lowly troubles into rich, famous glory. He bypassed the problems of mortgage and unemployment at the age of sixteen. He probably even had a private jet by now.

    By the time the girls finished talking about his story, wondering what it would be like to wake up famous, the mom herself had some business to attend. Clearing out the girls, she sat down in front of the glowing computer screen and quickly noticed another video at the right bottom corner. It showed a man in his mid-twenties, wearing an old blue t-shirt and a dark baseball cap, sitting on a brown sofa most likely in his living room. The video was probably recorded with the built-in camera found on his computer and was entitled “Why It Sucks To Be Famous.” It was not very popular, as it had only been watched 15 times, but it intrigued the mom, and she clicked on the icon of this unmistakably attractive male. The movie didn't waste any time. The man started talking a mere millisecond after the play button was pressed.

    “I don’t know why everyone's so obsessed with being famous,” he ranted, confused, as if someone had just told him he needed to try out for the sixteenth season of “The Bachelor” after breaking up with his long-time girlfriend. He’s obviously jealous he isn’t famous, thought the mom. He’s not that good of a performer, either. I can’t even see his eyes beneath that goofy hat.

    “We see tabloids at the super market about what Brad Pitt’s doing and where he’s going to adopt his next kid from, Miley Cyrus posing half-naked on the front of Vogue at the age of sixteen, all the weird results from Oprah’s latest diet, TV shows about problems of spoiled stars, their weddings, why they got divorced, and what happened to their kids after they split, Mary-Kate’s latest drug rehab and Lindsey locked up in New York City, the lives of celebrities. It sounds cool, right? Can't get enough of it.

    “Well, you know what, I'm sick of reading about famous people. Why do we care? Okay, I admit, I did watch those stupid movies when they were kids. You know, but when they were kids, they were different -- the Olsen twins in “Full House,” Lohan in “The Parent Trap,” even Michael Jackson in “The Jackson 5.” They had talent, and they were innocent, but something changed. They got older, they got richer, they got more fans, they were in more movies, had more concerts, sold more merchandise, got more money, got more friends, got more greedy, found drugs, found guys, found girls, compromised, complained, partied, lost control, and all the sudden, they weren't that innocent anymore. They had big problems, big like their big names, and we just ate it all up, just made them get even bigger.

    “That's what being famous does to you. It makes you stupid. It makes you scared to stay inside because people will forget about you. It makes you scared to go outside because people won't leave you alone. It means you're always following someone else's schedule. It means you start thinking you're something, something bigger than everybody else, bigger than the world. It means you worry about keeping up your image, whatever that is, instead of worrying about your actual self. Being famous isn't an improvement. It's a joke.

    “I know all of you on the other side of this computer screen would all like to get your 15 minutes of fame. Everyone knows the YouTube dream comes true every once in a while when the stars align and the Red Sox beat the Yankees, and I can't tell you not to keep dreaming or whatever, but just so you know, if you keep making those videos and keep posting them on YouTube and keep getting your hopes up and all that, you just might get what you want. Yeah, you just might end up someday with your name splattered across all those real classy magazines at the nearest gas station. Dreams come true. It happens, right?”

    Then the little box on the screen went black. That was the end? It was kind of unexpected, and not very well-done. The mom looked around to see if the girls had heard. They hadn’t. They were upstairs listening to pop songs on the radio. “Good,” she breathed. People could put up just about anything they wanted on the internet.