Applause, Please

Fame, what's your name?

My neighbor is a drummer in a famous rock band and tours internationally in sold-out arenas. He came home from tour last week and said something that crushed my childhood dream.

He said, “I’d rather be recording in the studio than onstage.”

What? What the hell was he talking about?

I took a beat, looked him in the eyes, and asked, “What about the applause? What about the fame?” I’ve always wanted to be famous. I love writing, but come on, I’d rather be reading my essays on a late-night show wearing Tom Ford than writing them alone at home in sweatpants.

Does that make me shallow? Absolutely. And yet, here we are. I can’t be the only one.

My lifelong quest for fame started early. When I was eleven, I wrote a comic murder mystery musical called Pip, Pip, the Boat Is In so I could discuss it on the Tonight Show. I practiced my interviews in the mirror. “You want to know who should star in the movie? Why you, Johnny!”

My mom says that anytime anyone came over to our house I would ask: “Can I read you my play?” I thought a plumber or an electrician might know someone who might discover me. My showstopper musical number was sung by the ship’s first mate:

Murdering, murdering,
how I love to murder pee-oh-pul, oh yes I do.

If a kid wrote that today, he’d be on antidepressants by morning. But it was a more lenient time.

I was obsessed with the idea of being famous. It wasn’t the applause as much as wanting to be told I was special, different from everybody else. I wanted strangers to worship my talent.

When it became clear I had no actual talent, I pivoted. At sixteen, I became a music agent at J-1 Talent in West Bloomfield, Michigan booking local acts into colleges and bars. If I couldn’t find fame on my own, I figured I could discover the next big thing and be famous by proximity. I rode my bicycle to clubs and restaurants where I drank illegally while watching the bands I booked. Like I said, it was a more lenient time.

I eventually caught a glimpse of celebrity a few years back when I went on the Today Show, pitching a book on how to win college scholarships without good grades. I thought this would be the moment when fame would finally find me. The night before the interview I practiced potential conversations. “Even you could find a scholarship these days, Katie.” Thankfully, I didn’t end up saying that. I sounded stupid, but not that stupid.

When my segment ended, I rushed out of 30 Rock and assumed that everyone on West 49th had just seen me on TV. I imagined strangers saying, “Hey, isn’t that the college scholarship guy?” For a few glorious hours, I thought I was famous. Unfortunately, nobody else did. On my flight home to Chicago, I saw the film critic Gene Siskel, who was sitting two rows ahead of me. I gave him a cool upward “sup” nod, the kind I imagined famous people used to acknowledge each other. He looked right through me. I turned to the person sitting next to me and said, “I was just on the Today Show.” She looked at me, saw I was unimportant, and said “good for you” before going back to her People Magazine.

My mother, of course, missed the whole show. “You know I only watch PBS, Mark.”

And that’s where my fame died. I’ve been on a few podcasts and radio interviews since then, and I’ve had some essays published, but no fame. I had my fifteen minutes. Maybe six or seven.

I’d like to say I don’t care about that stuff anymore, but it wouldn’t be true. My kid brain hasn’t left me. I’m still looking for validation, for strangers to tell me I’m special. It’s pathetic. I built and sold a fantastic business and have the luxury of writing essays that people seem to be reading. I have an incredible family and great friends. So why does my kid brain still clamor for love from people who don’t know me?

My adult brain isn’t much better. That guy thinks about legacy too much. He wants proof that he was here, kicked some ass, and maybe has his name on a book, a building, or at least a signature cocktail. I know logically that legacy is pointless. It doesn’t matter what people think about you when you’re dead, it matters what you do when you’re alive. But still, is it so terrible to hope people remember you a little?

I recently got a note from a friend commenting on an essay I published on Substack about not dying during heart surgery. She said that she was glad I didn’t die, saying, “The world would be a less pleasant place without you.”

I read that line a few times and it struck me that her words were applause in their own way. If the people we know think the world is better with us in it, that’s probably all the fame we need.

I guess my drummer buddy has a point. He doesn’t care if people know his name or flock to his concerts. He’d rather make something worth listening to, something that wasn’t here before him and that might hang around a beat afterward. I get that. Creating beats performing. Building a career, a family, a circle of friends, and an essay or two, that’s plenty.

But still, can I read you my play?