What would it mean to free ourselves from the concept of fame?
The first famous person I met was Gerry Mulligan. He was a friend of one of my parents’ friends, a saxophonist, an old guy who lived in our small Connecticut suburb. I probably should have known who he was. I was in middle school and played saxophone in jazz band, and I was really into the music, Charlie Parker and the bebop wizards. Anyway, an invitation was arranged. My mother drove me to his house. Mulligan opened the front door, very tall, white hair, white beard. He poured me lemonade. He was recording that day in his studio, a room of rugs and instruments. I had no idea he’d played with Miles Davis and Max Roach, no idea he was part of Birth of the Cool, I just thought he was nice and I left feeling guilty I played alto sax, not baritone, Mulligan’s specialty.
Fame is silly but powerful. As of October, according to Forbes, a quarter of young Americans want to be influencers, our current iteration. In my house growing up, there was always a copy of People or Vanity Fair on the coffee table, maybe that’s where I got a high tolerance for name-dropping – I don’t care if it’s gauche, I still find fame interesting, the way it forces change.
Living in Los Angeles, spending time in certain neighborhoods, can lead to genres of the thing. My wife spotted Lawrence Fishburne in a supermarket wearing a martial arts uniform. The same supermarket, I saw Eve pile her cart with burritos. A different supermarket, I watched David Chang load up on frozen pizza.
A non-grocery story: this past New Year’s, we went to a party attended by a couple famous people, and late at night, one of them, a young singer/actress, during a lull in conversation, was asked if she was reading anything good at the moment. She paused a moment, thinking, then said, “Actually, I only read books I’ve written myself.”
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