Site Login
God must hate a lot of us.
(Well, at least those who strive for fame yet fail, miserably.)
The illusive path to stardom, upon which I took my first tentative step well over a decade, still till this day stretches long and far out before me—further than my eye could ever make out, always too hazy for my not-to-ingenious mind to impart a rigid firmness. It’s as if an awesome, gilded, insurmountable mountain towers over me, mocking me sans a hint of mercy; much like a real marathon does to a inveterate couch potato garbed in a newly purchased pair of jogging pants, recently inspired to get off his oversized posterior by watching on TV another marathon, the one run in Boston.
10 years, two novels and one short story later, and not one promising lead to bonafide publication. Nada, zero, strike three, four and onward, to infinity. Hell, I could post what I’ve written on the Internet—for free!—and I’m sure I’d still get no buzz. Not even a complaint, as in, Please, Mr. Wannabe-author, the Internet might be vast, but every byte should be reserved for something of interest. I’d chalk my failure it up to a lack of talent (I’m now mature and hardbitten enough to consider that possibility), but something teases me that contrary cosmic forces might be at play. Curiously queer events seem to be afoot, blocking the way for most, but not all.
Things, I’m certain, at their most elemental level, aren’t fair! And someone’s got to stand up and take the blame!!
I, like so many thousands, if not millions, of others in this “American Idol” society of ours, one that seems to over-produce celebrities like the Caribbean churns out starry-eyed baseball players, feel cheated; I/we couldn’t get a break—nothing, no how—even if we were to ride shotgun in a souped up roadster driven by Billy Joel at two in the morning.
I mean, look at some of what’s going on in the world of entertainment, how so many jerks have not only gotten attention, but are soaring, higher and higher. Read the following examples, and then, if you got the guts, instead of commiserating with me, mark me down as a whiner who just can’t cut it; a sissy who is only employing fantastical notions of divine displeasure as a binky.
1st: Speaking of American Idol, how does a dull-witted, slow-talking version of Don
Rickles—I.E., Simon Cowell—bag a 36 million dollar a year contract knocking aspiring songsters!? I mean, I wouldn’t want to be button-holed by that lethargic wind bag for five seconds at a cocktail party, let alone suffer him telling me, or anyone else, that I suck, all in that uniquely desiccated British wit of his. Now, Paula’s success, that I can understand: She did have a profitable singing career, plus she’s a wack-job with some form of magnetism. As for the black guy, well, he’s, um, black. (I really should watch the show, learn a bit more about the dynamics of the one wholesome show Fox entertainment ever put out. But singing and dancing, with the audience – in studio and at home – clapping away, cheering and all the voting. . . . Well, it’s just so lower class. I’m too much of a sophisticate for all of that pedestrian trifle.)
Sigh.
2nd: How about Jay Leno, and his fabulously entertaining forays into the world of “Reality TV”? A week of broadcasting isn’t complete at the Tonight Show, unless another exciting episode of “Jaywalking” dredges up the latest possible entries into the ever enlarging B-list of show business. (Hey, “B” is a helluva lot better than “L,” as in “L”eft-out.)
I guess I should do more than complain. I mean, I could hang around Burbank, wait for Leno (a worthy successor to Carson, when he’s spoofing reality, not pimping it) and his crew to go trawling, then ham it up for the camera, pretend I’m as dumb as a “ham,” but fetching as one glazed for a holiday meal. Then, after I won or lost the battle of the “Jaywalk All-stars,” I could then spring my literary talents on a ready-made audience.
However, would anyone “really” believe I could put together a coherent sentence, let alone write a book, after providing implausibly stupid answers to obvious questions, like, “When did the War of 1812 begin? Why, Jay, the War of 1812 began at 12 minutes after 6 PM.”
Double sigh.
Thirdly, as further proof Someone above just has got to relish the emotionally tasty vibes that only dreams denied and frustrated, over and over, could ever cook up, check out the recent sordid saga of the purported serial plagiarist, Kaavya Viswanathan. (All in one book, her first!)
Thrust upon a celebrity revering culture, one that is always hungry for the latest newcomer (except me), comes a brainy, attractive teenager who’s got so much in her favor: barely seventeen years on the planet when she “compiled” the book, two years later a sophomore in the hallowed halls of Harvard, and now, her “workmanship” seemed destined for celluloid glory.
A slam dunk.
But what do we, the green-eyed undiscovered – schadenfreude be praised – find out!?
She, “and” her hack book-packaging company, Alloy, screwed it all up. Did this clownish train-wreck of a partnership endeavor to put out something original? No. . ! Instead, they regurgitated pre-written paragraph after paragraph, later fingered by others as an unauthorized encore presentation. The big opportunity, hers and that ghastly writing company, there for the taking, and they stupidly duplicated it right down the drain. Idiots!! (Well, the people at Alloy are inexcusably clumsy fools. As for Miss Viswanthan, she’s just a dumb kid. “All” kids are dumb, I say, no matter how high their IQ or their capacity for work. I truly wish her well when she grows up—in a field other than literature!!)
Not only a sigh, the third in a succession I fear might never end, but add to that an exasperating exclamation of “what the hell!?” I mean, I’ve got some original stuff, ready to publish, no intellectual photocopying involved, nosiree. How ‘bout cutting me some slack, powers that be!? Enough of the silent mockery, Lord God that BE. Please, pay attention, to me! I mean, I’m doing a bang-up job, I think; that shouldn’t mean everything I do, fame-seeking wise, should, like a “bang,” blow up in my face.
Quadruple sigh. (Hey, I’ve got an endless supply of them; it wont hurt to toss out another soft moan.)
One last example, then I’ll put this exegesis to envy to bed. I do think, though, this last case in point might be sparse in the actual number of written words, and was done with little aforethought – quite instinctively, I’ll admit – nonetheless it speaks volumes as it emphatically and undeniably declares, Life ain’t fair – as far as I can tell – no matter who’s to blame.
PARIS HILTON.
