Why I Should Be Famous

It strikes me as very sad that I am not a famous person, because I would be a wonderful famous person.

I would self-effacing when necessary, and always grateful to the little people who made me famous. I would encourage them to follow in my footsteps and perhaps set up a tax-free non-profit foundation to further my thoughts and teachings.

I would never show up drunk at an award ceremony, or elbow someone off the stage and announce that the honor should go to someone prettier, more talented, and related to me.

I would give money to charity, very anonymously, with only a press release or two and maybe a Facebook announcement. And when the media discovered that I was the one who gave all that money toward deprogramming ISIS terrorists, I would adopt an aw-shucks attitude and say anyone in my famous position would do the same.

I would not dress all in white like Tom Wolfe and pretend to be an albino radish.

I would not, as did Norman Mailer, champion the cause of a convicted murderer/author who, when released, knifes someone to death.

I would not charge millions of dollars to come to your campus and make a twenty minute speech.

I would not own a house in the Hamptons or associate with people who do, except perhaps with Terence Stamp, and that only because of his astounding performance as Bernadette in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. And because he once dated Brigitte Bardot.

I would not pretend familiarity with things I know nothing about.

I would not run for office.

I probably would not become transgender, because I think it’s too late for that.

I would be kind to small animals.

And to children.

And to the elderly.

And to all those people who don’t speak English.

Or French.

I would become a UN Special Ambassador and espouse several worthy causes.

I would write books that leave critics gasping, and then give the books away free on Kindle.

I would compose spectacularly hummable songs that never have more than four chords, so that amateur musicians could play them forever.

I would never, ever, quote Shakespeare.  

And if I were to be in France, I would never, ever, quote Molière.

I would not die at age 27 from a drug overdose.

I would not become a Scientologist.

I would not vanish and reappear several weeks later in the company of someone else’s wife.

Or dog.

I would not text photos of my private parts to anyone.

And if caught doing so, I would not enter rehab with great fanfare.

I would not go on all-expenses-paid trip to former Soviet Nations to give a speech no ne attends.

I would not participate in a sing along of Blueberry Hill with Vladimir Putin.