You Need More Than Fifteen Minutes, Though That May Do
The movie Fame tried to spell it out to young people. Andy Warhol (read: Warthog) joked about how we all were looking for just 15 minutes of it. And then the thought hit me, and "has-beens" need it to recharge their batteries and make their comebacks! I was jealously joking, but it's true, you need a dose of fame in your life in order to establish a means of earning a living at what you do best for as long as your fame can carry you. I'm not saying fame will make you happy; look at gross-faced Tammy Faye Baaker, the Christian slut queen of the 80s; she became famous as a "Praise the Lard" hustling white teen queen and her rock 'n roll deejay husband after not succeeding in rock 'n roll going into Christian evangelism (read: Holy Rollers) and becoming more than a tinhorn, cheap-looking maltshop sing-along queen, becoming an exalted saint of a shining woman backed by Jesus, Jehovah, and a whole hollering, rolling, and money-to-burn backsliding Yahoo audience and along with Brother Jimmy "Git Nekkid Fur Me, Bitch" Swaggart and his rednecks for Jesus gang--all I'm saying is, these sleazebags gained enough fame--well, just look at poor ole Tammy Faye--she got famous and then got famous again, yes, a "gotcha" fame, she and hubby Jim (poor thing, Tammy Faye turned down his little boy pecker that got harder for little boys than it did for her for the big pricks of some of the band members and anybody on staff who needed a blowjob real fast in the back of Tammy Faye's oversize Lincoln limo, finally divorcing Jimbo after he was thrown in the slammer for bilking PTL Yahoos for millions upon millions of dollars and marrying one of Jimmy's biggest backers and henchmen only to lose him to the slammer, too, later on stealing money charges, too. Money was Tammy Faye's real God; and she got some fame and that was enough to keep old Tammy secured with offshore bank accounts and she went on to start confessin' her sins and even had a fairly prosperous little church of sorts at the end--and boy howdy what her vengeful God did to her for her sins--the worst thing he did was send cancer to burn her down, shrink her down, into becoming one of the god-awful ugliest women to ever gain fame--and by God, even as a dying witch, she gained some more fame, the media feeling sorry for her and actually declaring her a "great Amurican woman." All for money, which is what fame's all about. And, yes, fame brings with it money. And it also brings with it remembrance and contacts from remembrance and all kinds of second chances based on people remembering who you were when you were famous.
So, yep, I threw the word in the Google search slot on my Firefox home page and the first thing I got thrilled me to death. Check it out, here's the www.fame.org page:
The Foundation for the Advancement of Monetary Education. I like that; it does have a ring of fame to it.
Here's another one: Full-Sky Astrometrics Mapping Explorer at the US Naval Observatory:
That's pretty heavy stuff there, astrometrically speaking certainly--mapping the billions of what we call stars--I recall a long-gone woman astronomer who set about counting all the stars she could see after taking photographic plates of night skies night after night. I believe she even named the stars she found. And, by golly, I don't thing I'm lyin' like a dog this time.
And finally here's an FAME that I don't get--I get the ME part, medical evangelism--that was enough to stop me--check 'em out, they're bringing fame to Jesus--Damn, doesn't that nonexistent legend have enough fame?
Maybe the FA stands for "Famous Amos." Or "Fat Ass." Or "Francis of Assisi." Or "Fucking A." Or "Flying A." Or "Fabricated Aardvark."
I had a friend, a pretty good piano player and singer, very talented, well-versed in music, hell he had a degree in it, but, problem, he wasn't that strong in terms of competing on the big-stage venues, limited in his talents to good-paying but creatively NADA jobs tickling the ivories and crooning to the god-damn tourists on a motel circuit that ran from Midland, Texas, all the way out to California, like San Bernadino.... But anyway, at one moment in his coming up, he had finagled a recording contract out of Liberty Records, a subsidiary of one of those bigger record companies like Mercury, Emarcy, Capitol, those labels, out in Hollywood--I think they later bought Blue Note the old jazz label, but anyway, this friend had gotten this recording contract and he made 3 albums for this label, two of the albums released, he and his trio, which consisted of a very well-known studio guitar player and a bass and drums he'd picked up in Dallas or somewhere--and one of his albums, by God, had a quaint success and got reviewed in Downbeat and by God my friend had a brief moment of fame--why he actually hired a clipping service and started getting airplay--on his way...and then suddenly, they pulled his contract and stopped peddling his albums--out of the blue like that--but anyway, those albums were enough to give my friend fame enough that he took his fame to a swell little ritsy corner of Arizona where he became the darling cocktail entertainer at some of the swankiest hotels and resorts in that area. Why, he was so famous, he started his own jazz festival way out there among the redstone rocks that glow a golden red in that the sinking desert suns every evening. That's all you need, folks, just a couple of albums out, a few good mentions, and some air play, and, of course, some really swell clothes, nothing cheap, and looking cool and talking super trash and hanging as a young man with Duke and Lionel and Cannonball and Art Tatum and Stuff Smith and marrying a model and living in a high-brow area of Queens, New York.
Oh fame, fame, fame, where art thou!
I've had my moments of fame--oh yes, low-level fame to be sure, cult fame for awhile and then publishing fame, but not enough to throw myself on a comeback trail, better than ever, not a has-been but a staying-hip contemporary musical whiz or writing fool or poetic master.
My teeshirts are all stained with my efforts at fame.
What does that mean? You'd have to see my teeshirts.
for The [Famous] Daily Growler