What is celebrity?

Why do we average human beings measure ourselves in celebrity sightings and in brushes with the rich and famous?

This celebrity story goes back 53 years to when I was 16.

My father dropped me off in Monticello, NY in June. As I left the 1948 Buick I had my doubts. I was going to seek first-time employment as a busboy. Draped over my arm was a pair of black pants (tools of the trade).

I walked about half a block when a car stopped and asked me, "Are you a busboy?" I nodded and he said, "Jump in the back of the car." I did.

The car traveled down the winding Catskill Mountain roads and we got off at the Sunnyland Hotel in Parksville, NY. It was small but comfortable and "haimish" (homey).

Even for a novice I had a bad season. I kept breaking glasses in a variety of different ways, but only when one of the bosses was within earshot.

At the Sunnyland there was a four-piece band. They were all students at the Bronx High School of Science and they were all about my age. They were a cross section of the Bronx - two Jewish boys on wind instruments, one Puerto Rican kid piano player and one Italian kid on drums. They were pretty good.

They played nightly at the casino and the guests appreciated their music and made them into mini-celebrities, not like us peons in the dining room.

In the dining room we also had talent. Joe Pastore was a waiter with a magnificent operatic voice. As we cleared the dishes, washed the silverware and set up for the next meal Joe would boom out arias of all Mario Lanza's songs. He was talented and a fabulous singer.

One summer evening Joe sang in the casino and Waldo the drummer did a comedy routine. They tore the house down. Joe was sensational and Waldo was funny as heck. The Sunnyland Hotel glowed for a week after their performance.

This story goes back 53 years so forgive me if there are some gaps in it.

Somehow, Joe and Waldo got a mid-week booking at Klein's Hillside Hotel. Klein's was a huge hotel complex. It had professional basketball players on its staff. Wilt Chamberlain worked in the dining room. It booked only the best entertainers on weekends. The grounds were enormous.

How would Joe and Waldo fare on a mid-week gig at Klein's?

Waldo borrowed my tan slacks because he had no suitable pants of his own. My pants enveloped his shoes as I was taller than Waldo. My father was staying at the Sunnyland and we all went over to Klein's Hillside to see our boys, Joe and Waldo knock 'em dead.

It was a disaster!

Joe was just OK, but Waldo flopped completely.

Not one laugh.

Not one titter.

Not one guffaw.

The material that killed them at the Sunnyland died on the stage at the enormous Klein's Hillside Hotel.

Why am I telling this story?

Why did I begin this story speaking of celebrities?

Brash, feisty, Bronxy-ey Waldo changed his name. He gave up the drums and later started singing.

I met him on a bus once in the Bronx and he still exuded a tough guy, hard-nosed quality.

He changed his name. He became Bobby Darin.

He was a "superstar" and he once wore my tan slacks.