15 Seconds of Fame
May 1, 2008
Now that there are so many people in the world, and 9/10th of them have a website and the rest are competing on American Idol, we’re now allowed 15 seconds of fame instead of 15 minutes. But that’s only while we’re alive. One can be post-humously famous for eternity, and that’s good news for those of us who aren’t in a hurry or plan on dying within the next 50 years. I fall into both categories. Being dead has a few drawbacks, certainly. But being dead encourages a martyr-like status that is difficult to attain otherwise. I have decided that it is more cost and time effective to focus on my apres-death artistic status instead of trying to get a gig or publish a novel while I’m alive and already swamped with time-killing activities, like planting tomatoes.
I have two unpublished novels, 400 short stories, 2 oil paintings, 650 philosophical columns, 1 poem, 24 hours of video taped performance, 1 CD, 1 documentary. Many people with alot less, are famous as hell but will be forgotten in another two years. Why compete? I cannot. They are in L.A. They are young. They are dumb. They are beautiful. They are sane. I am in Bridport, Vermont, I am nuts and the only ass I can find to kiss around here lies beneath a fly swatting tail.
It is sheer practicality that encourages me to aim for fame after death. And I will be famous after death, if only that I am dead. Do not underestimate the power of an obituary. The photo above is my obituary photo, readied for the New York Times and Addison County Independent. I am trying to help my daughter, the curator of my estate, who will have to sift through my drawers, file cabinets and photo albums for work that warrants legendary status. There is alot of it. I hope she marries a librarian.
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There is somebody in my house in Vermont. A nice man is renting my house and I am thrilled because that man is renting my house and sending me money so that I can rent an apartment in Providence. Now, wait a minute. Does this make sense? I thought so, a few weeks ago, when I was working here, singing, planning, organizing, hob-knobbing, but as of today, as I lugged a bunch of my crap up two flights of stairs on the East Side, all the while knowing I would have to lug the crap back down the two flights of stairs a few months from now— as of today, I thought to myself, “Gee, I don’t feel very good in my head” I sat on the stairs, dirty stairs, very dirty, and considered my situation. I blamed the town of Bridport , Vermont, for not having a Dunkin Donut’s or a Cafe, a bar or a nightclub, a college, tennis courts, health club, movie theater. Then I blamed myself for wanting those things. Then I blamed myself for having those things here in Providence and not taking advantage of them because I like staying home and reading in bed. Now, if I like staying home and reading in bed, why don’t I just move back to my own home, in Bridport, and wait out the winter with Charles Dickens and Mark Twain? Now that I have rented my house, I miss it. It is not available. That is why I was so sad today, moving into what I thought was a nice apartment on the East Side. It is somebody elses house and always will be, no matter how many knick knacks, rugs, paintings, books, personal items I stuff into it. Renting makes me feel insecure, more insecure than worrying about how to pay my property tax. It’s silly, because none of us own anything fully. Still, sombody is in MY house and i am in somebody else’s house, and it’s ridiculous in a way that I can’t quite comprehend and it is making me very very sad.