It's Dave's birthday (oh, and Elvis', to whom Dave bears a striking resemblance AND Jim Kloss' who bears a striking resemblance to Dave!), and the happiest place on earth for him (Dave) is Lowe's. This is the truth. My day started with a cup of coffee, followed by a trudge through the snow and a slippery ride into town, in order to get a big whiff of sawdust and pipe grease (on sale). In return, he'll build something cool - and then, happy birthday to me!
Back in the saddle, yesterday was a positive points day. I got a new show at a theatre in Holland during the Dutch leg of the Spring Tour. No, I can't pronounce the theatre name, but it's a good show and everyone in Holland speaks better English than I do. New show - 1 point. My friend, Mo, reminded me that she's busting her ass to help things along in Europe - and that her existence alone in this capacity is worth points. I agree. 5 points. Lastly, 2 points because I'd forgotten that my friend, Carrie, reminded me the night before that the music business has a tendency to make you believe that if your numbers/fans/sales aren't climbing daily, you're, well, a failure. 'Look at Michael Jackson,' she said. '10,000,000 albums sold and every album had to beat the last one's sales.'
And we all know where that kind of thinking led him.
So Why Don't We All Want to be as Famous as Michael Jackson?
Who wouldn't want to be? Great Big Pots of Money, Throngs of Attractive People Waiting to Kiss your Shoes, er, Glove.. Red Carpets rolled out on every Sidewalk, Attendance at the Royal Courts of the World, Jets, Polo Ponies, and oh the Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams!
Oh, but there's a big, bubbly price to pay. A BIG one. Take Garth Brooks & that whole 'Chris Rock and Roll Guy Alter-Ego' debacle. Too much fame and his whole reality of exactly who would follow him into the Whack Woods was skewed. Jewell and the book of, er, poetry? Girl thought she was Sylvia Plath there for a minute. ["..together we have sensed distance stretch it's defeating spine between our hearts.. " Stop it.] And, the biggest price paid, perhaps, was that of Michael Jackson and the evolutionary nose. It just kept getting smaller and squarer, and then pretty soon he had to put some sort of copper nose cover on it, and then it couldn't be exposed to the light... and then he was hanging 'Baby Blanket' off a balcony in Germany that time and, well, even the circuses couldn't touch him. Famous, mostly rich, publicly ridiculed, and miserable.
So, the answer is obvious: Because huge amounts of fame and fortune lead you to delusional beliefs about yourself. And while you ascend to a semi-demi-godhood, in your mind, we, the little people, the civilians, the ants, can see right up your.. um.. nose. Yuck.
And because Plastic Surgery is like Crack. All the celebrities are hooked. In a couple years, Sarah Palin will confirm that. I mean, deny that. I promise.
Friday, January 8, 2010
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I enjoyed seeing my name mingling there with Dave, Elvis, Michael and Lowe's. My fifteen minutes over, I shall return to the depths of obscurity where there is great joy in being unable to purchase a NYTimes headline or Newsweek cover story.
ReplyDeleteIt may have been you who sent me a poem entitled "Famous" by Naomi Shihab Nye. It's worth a slow read. The line which haunts and finally caused me to pin a copy above my desk is:
I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines
famous as the one who smiled back.