Being a celebrity doesn't just mean having your birthday cake and eating it too, you also get thousands for being there

By RON CORBETT

The way I see it, the world can be divided into two groups of people. Those who know Nick Carter. And those who don't.

I am in the former group, and I take no particular pride in it. For those who don't know Nick Carter, he is the youngest member of the Backstreet Boys.

He has a younger brother named Aaron and the entire Carter family was briefly featured on a reality television series called House of Carters. It ran on E! for eight episodes.

He is widely regarded as the "heart-throb" in the Backstreet Boys. This is saying something. The boy band is comprised of five heart-throbs, all of whom have had their personal lives writ large on the pages of supermarket tabloids.

He has dated a string of aspiring actresses and debutantes, the most famous being Paris Hilton. One girlfriend, Kathy Griffin, said he was functionally illiterate and had trouble ordering from a menu. When the story broke, Nick Carter gave an interview to CosmoGirl, in which he confided his favourite book is The Celestine Prophecy.

Now, the reason I know so much about Nick Carter is because I am addicted to supermarket tabloids. Again, I take no particular pride in this.

I have blamed my wife for this addiction, but truth be told, she could disappear from the planet tomorrow and I would still be buying supermarket tabloids on the pretence I am doing it for her.

I know the names of all the Jolie-Pitt children. I know how to accurately gauge the various bumps on Nicole Richie's stomach. I think it is shameful, what Madonna is currently doing to A-Rod.

So I was excited, when the publicist for Tila Tequila nightclub in the Byward Market phoned me up last week and told me Nick Carter was coming to Ottawa. To celebrate his birthday no less.

I hung up feeling grateful for the news, but also wondering why Nick Carter was coming to Ottawa to celebrate his birthday. Which shows, despite my addiction, how sadly ignorant I am about the actual life of a celebrity.

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"It's a three-night birthday celebration," says Abbis Mahmoud, the owner of Tila Tequila nightclub. "He's in Toronto, Montreal and Ottawa. We're pretty lucky to have him. Tickets are only $20."

Mahmoud keeps talking: Tells me he has just inked "celebrity appearance contracts" with not only Nick Carter but also the Pussycat Dolls and Lady GaGa; has staff flying out to London and Paris next week, to scout out possible nightclub sites for this new business.

Finally, when it is my turn to talk, I ask a stupid question: "So what do they do at the nightclub?"

Mahmoud seems momentarily taken aback.

"Well, they're there. You're in the same room as Nick Carter. You can tell your friends about it. Have pictures taken. That sort of thing."

I still don't get it.

"You pay money for that? There's not a performance? They don't give a show?"

Mahmoud speaks to me as if I am a child.

"Not usually. They're just there. It's an appearance."

And I swear, it was only then that Nick Carter coming to Ottawa made any sense to me. My Lord, he was getting paid. He was milking his birthday for money.

It seems for celebrities like Carter, on those days when giving a live performance may seem a terrible bother, or when you need a break from the solo album Wikipedia says you have been working on for the past six years -- it is good to know you can make a little coin by just showing up somewhere and being Nick Carter.

Or being Nicole Richie. Or being Paris Hilton. Or being Kim Kardashian (who remains the most perplexing celebrity of all. Aside from the recent acquisition of a star-athlete-boyfriend, is there any reason I should know her?).

I don't understand the idea, but it seems a lot of other people get it. Mahmoud says the nightclub was packed when Carter arrived a little past midnight on Jan. 30. He posed for photos. Kindly consented to having drinks bought for him. Was gracious and happy throughout the evening.

"Nick loves Ottawa," says Mahmoud. "He finds the people friendly, and the girls beautiful."

Well, there you go. Call the tourism bureau.

Before ending the interview, I ask one final stupid question.

"So how old is he?"

"He doesn't want me to say," says Mahmoud, a little sheepishly this time, perhaps realizing the absurdity. "That was the one thing he was real specific about. He didn't want it on the cake. Didn't want anyone talking about it."

Seems like a strange request for a man who was born only 29 years ago, on Jan. 28, 1980, but there you have it.

Happy birthday Nick, from all your many fans in Ottawa.

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