Hello, there. I don’t feel the need to introduce myself, but for the sake of etiquette, my name is Cary Grant. I’d compare myself to a one of these so-called contemporary movie stars as frame of reference, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone who could match the presence and charm that I emitted on the silver screen. Accordingly, I was known to charged anyone and everyone the fair price of fifteen-cents for my autograph. As you might have guessed from that, if I was alive today, I don’t believe I would be on Twitter..
My name used to be synonymous with words such as: “handsome,” “debonair,” and simply: “sex.” Naturally, I did not believe it was outrageous to require a small fee for my signature and time. Therefore, I have a hard time picturing myself Tweeting to I assume my millions of adoring followers that I hope they have a good fourth of July weekend.
I mean, for nothing? No monetary incentive in exchange for personal commentary attributed to my name and likeness? Does that sound like a man who when he was alive wouldn’t even think of touching a suit that wasn’t tailored made specifically for him, each costing thousands of dollars? Unless my accountant received a check in the mail every time I live Tweeted Homeland, the answer is: no. That sounds nothing like me.
You see, being a star in Hollywood heightens a man’s sense of himself and his accomplishments to a point where, let’s just say, our deal old friend Mr. Freud could have learn a lot of the concept of Id, Ego, and Superego. With that in mind, can you conjure up the image of me sitting down at a computer (the same man who stared in The Philadelphia Story, mind you) and Tweeting to Lena Dunham about how much I loved last night’s Girls? Don’t worry. I can’t either.
If you haven’t been successful convinced yet, consider the anecdote of how I came to star in North by Northwest, unarguably one of my most memorable roles in an already impressive career at that point. James Stewart desperately wanted the lead part, but everyone said that he was too old to play opposite the young and lovely Eve Marie Saint. I’m TWO years older than Jimmy and, well, we both now know who ended up receiving that role and the adjoining place in the history of cinema. This seems contradictory to a scenario where I open up a Twitter app on my phone and type in a snarky comment about how the service with my airline has been less than satisfactory. Quite the paradox, really.
I was never coy or unaware of my looks whatsoever while I was alive either. To the contrary. I knew what God had graced me with and wasn’t about to allow a fraction of that persona go financially uncounted for. Does the fact that I would ask a ten year-old girl for fifteen cents in exchange for my half-assed autograph offend you? Not me, Cary Grant. What would truly make me ill is the thought of seeing Tweets from my verified profile playing along to a hashtag game with @midnight. Dear, now I need another drink or five.
Now, sponsored Tweets would be a possibility, as long as I’m being paid to what I believe I’m worth. This, CG fans old and new, could be the only way you would ever I approve the possibility of a Tweet from me your newsfeed sandwiched between something called Uberfacts and David Boreanaz.
Ah, but let’s all be on the same page and concur that Paul Lind would have been a riot on Twitter.