A little while ago someone asked me how was I liking being a celebrity. It was said in all honesty and without a hint of sarcasm. Very odd for someone I know.
Anyway, as nice as it might be to be a celeb, I’m not, not by any stretch of the imagination—as Robin Leach can attest to. I’m not being modest. It’s just the way it is—although I kinda feel I would make a pretty good celebrity given the chance. Because, I know which fork is what in a restaurant, so I’m halfway there in principle.
I think certain things make you famous and I don’t make the cut in that respect. Here’s how I don’t make the cut:
1. Readers don’t camp outside a bookstore the night before a new release.
2. I don’t have a stalker (well, not anymore).
3. Readers don’t name their children after me (Simon for a boy and Simina for a girl, if you’re considering it. Just sayin’).
4. I don’t have a bodyguard and a personal assistant.
5. I don’t have Spielberg on speed dial.
6. When I travel, it ain’t in first class.
7. No one has named a mountain or valley on Mars after me.
8. I don’t have any endorsement deals.
But for me to consider myself famous, the above has to be reversed, but also the following has to happen:
1. I have a million Twitter followers.
2. TMZ follows me around all the time.
3. A porn movie will parody one of my books (such as: Sex Accidents Waiting to Happen, Working Stiffies, etc.)
4. I’ll make it to Barbara Walters’ 10 Most Fascinating People and/or Time’s 100 Most Influential People in the World or Rear of the Year.
5. I have people to write my books for me.
6. I have my own fragrance line (for men and women).
7. The only carpet I walk on is red.
8. Julie becomes a regular on a “Housewives of…” show.
These things seem like a good criteria for fame, don’t you think? 🙂