Mad Atoms

Growing up I was told by parents and teachers that I could be anything I wanted. Naturally I wanted to be famous. I was born from the loins of the ‘Me’ generation, came of age in the ‘greed is good’ eighties and developed a healthy case of narcissism with the new millennium. But apparently Hollywood hasn’t gotten the letter of recommendation from Mrs. Baxter, my fifth grade teacher who assured me anything is possible, because I’m still not famous.

Sure there are things I’ve not done. I’ve never met with a high powered, overly sarcastic talent agent. I have not walked a red carpet at a movie premier. And I have not offered up sexual favors in exchange for a successful career…yet.  I’ve seen that with YouTube, Twitter and episodes of The Hills, fame requires little talent or skill. And I’ve seen famous people my age. Granted they’re better looking and usually have famous parents. Clearly their fifth grade teachers had more influence than mine because I’m still not famous.

I was recognized once at my local Starbucks. A commercial I did was running nationally. In it I’m promoting a certain fast food restaurant and I wear a recognizable red wig. There was a cute girl who worked the cafe.

I would always try to make eyes with her and she would always ignore me. Well, after the commercial had gotten a fair amount of air time I sauntered into my Starbucks casual and confident. I walked up to my sweet barista and ordered my usual grande drip. She actually looked at me.

“Hey, aren’t you in that commercial with the wig?” she asked.

“Why yes I am.” I winked.

When you’re famous you can get away with winking. For a moment a fantasy played across my mind. Starbucks Girl and I would date as my fame grew from well known commercial actor to highly respected film star. We would marry just about the time I could afford a big house in the hills. She would be my supportive non-famous wife who used to be a barista just like Matt Damon has. On The Actor’s Studio she would sit in the audience as I answer Mr. Lipton’s blue carded questions about curse words and God. She would be my date to the Oscars, draped in a backless designer gown, her soft steamed milk hands wrapped around my arm as we moved down the press line. I would thank her most of all in my acceptance speech and people everywhere would envy the wife of a famous actor…

“That’ll be $1.85.”

Wait, that’s it? That wasn’t even a full fifteen minutes of fame! Spencer Pratt, with his blonde beard and annoying California rich kid accent, milked fifteen minutes into five years!  And all I got was thirty seconds?! According to Entourage this is not how it’s supposed to go down, lady. I’m supposed to get offers from movie studios and strippers while other famous people make cameos in my life, and at the very least I’m supposed to get a free cup of coffee!

They lied to me, those false prophets of the “Me” generation. Greed is not good, Mr. Douglas. Where are my fifteen minutes, Mr. Warhol? Screw you Mrs. Baxter! Why didn’t you just tell me to be a super hero? I had about as much of a chance and I’d have a cape, which come to think of it, was the other thing I really wanted back in the fifth grade.