Celebrity Alumni Anonymous

Felix Brem

This is an illicit student account of the last secret meeting of Celebrity Alumni Anonymous (CAS), which, according to my investigation, began roughly 13 years ago, around the start of the hit TV show Glee. The participants of this group seem to be suffering as a result of the discrete legal trap that new students fall into when they sign paperwork to register for OCSA: the Faustian bargain hidden in the fine print, which stipulates that OCSA legally and economically receives credit for any student's fame after graduation, and retains the right to use that student’s face (and soul) in any promotional material. 

I am currently undercover in an abandoned warehouse, crouched behind a large potted plant, where I can recognize several faces of known famous alumni, including Matthew Morrison. The alumni are gathered in a circle on worn folding chairs, under a flickering light bulb, with depressing musical theater ballads crooning quietly in the background. 

The meeting starts with a collective chant: “We, the celebrity alumni of the Orange County School of the Arts, pledge to aid each other in our attempts to escape from the grasp of an authoritarian regime of advertising. We pledge to never abandon the cause, out of hope for future generations of alumni.”   

Someone who I don’t recognize shares first. They wear a trench coat and large sunglasses even though they are indoors. “Last summer, my piano compositions were featured at Carnegie Hall. I played under a pseudonym, and wore a fake mustache and a heavy coat, but I still have reason to believe the Secret Police are on my trail. I’ve been living in a safe house since May, but I fear that they have found me already and are just biding their time.” 

Condolences are offered, and eventually the topic comes back around to a passionate Morrison. “Every day I wake up and see emails that my face has been added to some new banner, sign or promotional video,” he whispers. “Every time they bring me in to record this propaganda, my smile is a cry for help. Look how empty my eyes are. How forced my words are. For last year’s Season Finale, they made me say a pun about Glee. The worst six years of my life, and the Regime makes me relive them every day. I’m trying to move on with my life, but they won’t let me.” 

A blonde woman I recognize from Netflix’s “Lucifer” speaks up. “Why don’t you just decline promotional requests? That’s what I do, and they haven’t said a word.”

“You don’t understand,” Pedro Pascal responds bitterly. “They’ll get you eventually.”

Other suggestions for escaping the advertising cycle are proposed, including moving to Canada, faking a terminal illness and suing for emotional damage, but each one is shot down for being ineffective or impossible to execute. These alumni don’t seem to have much hope.

The conversation is cut off by the sudden crash of a battering ram breaking down the padlocked doors. Secret Police Officers, dressed in riot gear patterned with the OCSA logo, storm in waving batons and cattle prods. In seconds they have surrounded the celebrity alumni, shouting things like “Violation of alumni law!” and “unlawful assembly!” Many alumni scream and attempt to escape through the window or the back door, but they are stopped by a horde of giant cockroaches the Secret Police uses like bloodhounds. As the Secret Police begin to drag them out of the warehouse, Vanessa Hudgens screams, “No! Not The Hive again, please!” 

I fear I may have led the Secret Police Force right to the alumni, with the mandatory district-issued tracker drilled into my brain, but I dare not dwell on it. What’s done is done. But the things I have seen today have changed me, and will likely change you, readers. Consider your future carefully. We can only hope not to become famous when we graduate, else we meet the same fate.