On The Record: Famous For 144 Hours

Last week, when I wasn't fretting about killer mollusks or single-handedly destroying U.S./Chilean relations with jokey, borderline-insensitive blog posts, I was in a hotel room with Fall Out Boy trying to avoid being trampled by screaming throngs of preteens, ducking the members of the paparazzi and basically giving up any hope of ever setting foot outside again.

I was, for all intents and purposes, living the life of a mega-celebrity. And it was kind of the worst thing ever.

Of course, both those statements should be quantified. First, the hotel room in question was located in Punta Arenas, Chile, a town of just 120,000 people and the self-proclaimed "southernmost city in the world." Just a two-hour flight to Antarctica, it isn't exactly the kind of place multiplatinum rock bands go to unwind (unless they wanted to check out the Maggiorino Borgatello Museum of Pre-Hispanic ethnic groups), which meant that Fall Out Boy's presence was probably the hugest thing to happen to the town, well, ever. It wasn't difficult to be the biggest show in town, because we were pretty much the only show in town.

Secondly, being a mega-celebrity certainly isn't the worst thing ever. Obviously things like war, famine, disease and Alex Rodriguez have it beat. Also -- and I am not sure if you are aware of this -- but when you are superfamous, you can do pretty much anything you want: dance the night away at the hottest clubs, wear the finest (and costliest) designer clothes, commit any crime you can think of (failure to pay taxes, DUI, murder) without fear of legal repercussions. You have nothing to worry about and are basically set for life. Being Britney or Paris or Mariah or even Pete Wentz is a pretty sweet gig, when you think about it.

Only, it's also sort of not. I know this because, for six days down in Punta Arenas, I was Britney. Given the fact that I was a bearded Caucasian dude in skinny jeans, it didn't take the kids of Punta Arenas long to figure out that I was somehow connected to Fall Out Boy (I think some were even convinced I was in the band), which automatically made me a celebrity of the highest caliber. And fair game.

As a result, every pair of eyes was trained on me, which meant that I couldn't move without starting a mini-riot or having a million flashbulbs going off in my face. I wasn't able to go to the grocery story or open a window or basically do anything any normal person would be able to do. Kids screamed my name, asked me to sign their backpacks, passed me notes. They all felt that they knew me, could corner me and have a conversation with me. It was surreal, to say the very least.

Of course, at first, it was also pretty gratifying (if you've never had a group of 20-30 kids scream your name, well, you should try it some time), but after 48 hours, all the adulation started to grate on me. Then it stretched to 72 hours, then 96 ... and I started to flip out. Nothing made sense anymore ("How do these kids know my name? Why don't they ever go home?"), and I was filled with the overwhelming urge to flee. Only I couldn't, because I was a prisoner. It was sort of like being besieged by an army of squealing teenagers, and it was incredibly terrifying. And I quickly realized that perhaps I wasn't cut out to be a mega-celeb.

Of course, it bears mentioning that these kids weren't acting maliciously. They were just behaving in the way anyone would if his or her wildest, most improbable fantasies came true. Fall Out Boy weren't in Punta Arenas willingly (rather they found themselves stuck there when their plans to play a show at an Antarctic research facility [article id="1584246"]fell though[/article]), but that didn't seem to matter to the roughly 119,000 kids who surrounded the Hotel Finis Terrae. All they knew was that -- in some bizarre and unimaginable twist of fate -- international celebrity Pete Wentz and his associates (a motley crew that included FOB's managers and road crew, a documentary filmmaker, a still photographer and, uh, me) had descended upon their sleepy little town ... fulfilling a million MySpace dreams and slash-fiction fantasies in the process. It was the moment they had been waiting their entire (young) lives for.

So, understandably, they overreacted. In endless, tireless waves they crashed against the hotel doors, pouring into the lobby, ascending staircases, wandering the halls. They chanted the band's name, sang FOB songs, tossed candy bars through open windows. They scaled fences, stuck notes on walls, pounded on the glass with closed fists. And they didn't leave, not ever, because if they went home, there was the chance they'd miss the opportunity of their lifetime ... and they'd never be able to get it back.

And this is what you are forced to deal with when you are mega-famous. This is the weight you are forced to bear, whether you know it or not. Wentz told me that this happens almost on a daily basis, and he's used to it. Everywhere he goes, he deals with the crowds and the photographers. Every day, in some bizarre and sort of disturbing way, he is making people's fantasies come true just by existing. He has no problem with it either. It's the price he's forced to pay for being a celebrity.

It's certainly not a life for everyone, and I'm sort of glad I'm not in his shoes. I'm not trying to say that we should feel sorry for our mega-celebs -- after all, their lives are pretty much cake -- but for 144 hours, I was one of them ... and I have to admit that it was pretty awful. So the next time Britney runs over someone with her car, or Lindsay falls off the wagon, I'll sympathize with them in some small way. I'll defend them in our morning news meetings, and I'll tsk-tsk that mean old Perez Hilton when he says nasty things about them. After all, being famous is hard work ... or, at least, a lot harder than you'd think. Trust me.

B-Sides: Other Stories I'm Following This Week

Velvet Revolver and Scott Weiland [article id="1584599"]spar via press releases[/article] and long-winded blog posts. Sort of makes you miss the "Axl Rose/ Vince Neil 'Let's fight outside Atlantic City' " good old days, doesn't it?

[article id="1584384"]50 Cent backs down[/article] from an ill-conceived, headline-grabbing statement he made weeks earlier. You know, sort of like when he promised to retire if Kanye outsold him here in the U.S.

Note to [article id="1584591"]OneRepublic frontman Ryan Tedder[/article]: "Uh, yes it will, dude."

Questions? Concerns? Love Letters? Hit me up at BTTS@MTVStaff.com.