Zero Minutes of Fame

Last summer an artist friend of mine and I bopped around New York City for a week.  My friend took a lot of selfies in front of famous landmarks as we trekked through the sprawling metropolis. Since I was her travel buddy, she included me in the snapshots. (I like to think I'm kind of a famous landmark in her life.) 

It was easy for her to get good pictures of both of us surrounded by New York City scenes: my friend has very long arms, like human selfie sticks. 

The hotel where we stayed was in the theatre district. One Saturday night, after gorging ourselves on street vendor food, we suddenly found ourselves walking in front of Broadway. The sidewalks were thronged with tourists and people dressed in costumes representing famous pop icons. There were legions of Marilyn Monroes, Minnie Mouses, Elvis Presleys, and Donald Ducks.

"Let's take a picture of us in front of Broadway," my friend said.

"Good idea," I said.

"Ready?" She held the camera at arm's length. "Smile."

"Wait," I said, fumbling in my purse for my makeup case. "Let me check my lipstick. I think I ate it all off with that gyros."

"Okay," my friend said. "I'll wait."

Before I could locate my lipstick, a voice called out to us."Hey, ladies. Want your picture taken with Elvis?"

"Elvis" was in his early 20's and about 5'2". His pink-cheeked, cherubic face sported a faint dusting of pimples. A black pompadour wig sat askew on his head as he strutted toward us, resplendent in a white zip-up polyester jumpsuit with an open collar and gold embroidery. Sunglasses, dirty white sneakers and an animal-print fanny pack completed his ensemble.

"No thanks," said my friend.

Elvis beamed a dazzling grin. "Come on. It'll impress people back home."

"No," my friend said. She snapped a quick photo of us, put her camera in her bag and gestured to me to follow her as she walked away.

"You're missing the chance of a lifetime!" Elvis said. His voice was loud and irritable.

 "Sorry," my friend called over her shoulder," but I was never really into Elvis."

Elvis stood on tiptoe and shouted back at her. "Well I was never into you either!"

I wish they'd gotten along a little better, at least until I had a chance to fix my lipstick.

Help is On the Way

I've been under a huge amount of stress lately. I'll spare you the details about my stress, but the basic categories I'm dealing with are: death, money, art, love, and success.

One afternoon I was so upset by various life events, I piled a bunch of self-help books into a bag and fled to a nearby coffeehouse. After I bought myself a cup of coffee and pink cupcake with rosebud-adorned frosting, I settled myself down at a table with the self-help books and commenced with reading.

A few minutes later the man sitting at a table nearby burst into loud laughter. I glanced up to see what was going on and he was looking at me.

"I just read the title of the book you're reading," he said. "Very funny."

The book I was reading was Shut Up, Stop Whining and Get A Life by Larry Winget.

"I love this self-help book," I said. "I use it to bust self-pity." I put down the book and pointed to each of the rest of the books as I described each one. "This one is for when I need warm fuzzy love beams. This one is for when I need nitty-gritty career coaching. This one is to help me unleash my inner leadership skills. This one helps me relax and enjoy the moment. This one helps me manipulate my body language to affect my mood. This one helps me deal with neurotics in my life." 

"You certainly have a lot of self-help books!" he said. "Isn't it kind of heavy, carrying around all those books?"

"Yes," I said, " but it's worth it."

"Well never fear, little lady.  I've got one easy-to-carry self-help book which equals all of your self-help books rolled into one."

"Please don't try to sell me something," I said. "I only brought enough money for coffee and a cupcake."

"No worries. This self-help book is free." He held up a large, leather-bound book. "It's called The Holy Bible."

"Aren't you worried about it being confused with the other Holy Bible?"

"No," he said. "Because it IS the Holy Bible."

 "I see," I said.

"Tell you what, I'll make you a deal," he said. "I'll trade you this copy of the Holy Bible in exchange for all your self-help books."

"I already have a copy of the Holy Bible," I said.

"Then why don't you have it with you today?"

"I'm not sure where it is, " I said. "You see, I live in my art studio and things are kind of a mess."

"Well you better find that bible," he said. "In fact, if I see you here again without your bible, you're going to have to answer to me, missy."

"Okay," I said, gathering up my self-help books and stuffing them into my bag. "I'll go home and look for it right now."

I don't mind never going back to that coffeehouse. I never really liked the place anyway.

Living the dream

I was walking past an alley in downtown Minneapolis when a bedraggled man leaning against a dumpster called out to me. "Excuse me, ma'am...do you have a cigarette?"

 "Please don't call me ma'am," I said. "It makes me feel old. And yes I am old, but I only got that way because I quit smoking many years ago."

"Yeah, I should know better than to smoke," the man said. "I used to be a doctor."

"A doctor?" I said. "What kind of doctor?"

"A brain surgeon," he said. "I made a lot of money but I wasn't happy."

"Why not?" I said.

"What I really wanted to do with my life was be a bum," he said, "so I quit my job as a brain surgeon and followed my dream."

"I can totally relate," I said. "I too have lived by my own lights and followed my dream."

"And how did things turn out, this following of your dream?" he said.

"Pretty much as I expected," I said. "And you?"

"Me too," he said. "Pretty as I expected."

Knock knock

I ran into a writer friend of mine at Trader Joe's the other day. My friend is very nice but struggles with melancholia, so I like to try to cheer him up.

"How wonderful to see you!" I said. "Did you have a fun summer?"

"No,"he said. "I spent the summer defending my house from woodpeckers."

"Woodpeckers are so cute!" I said.

"They're destructive," he said. "They poke giant holes in my siding and make so much noise I can barely concentrate on my writing."

"You sound depressed," I said.

"I am," he said.

"There must be some way to make this fun," I said. "Since birds are technically dinosaurs, you should tell people you spent your summer defending your house from dinosaurs."

"You sure are full of bright ideas this morning," he said.

"Seriously," I said. "You should take a picture of yourself dressed like a caveman and then post it on your Facebook page. It will get you lots of attention and help your writing career."

 "I don't do Facebook," he said.

"Why not?" I said. "Facebook is a valuable career-building tool for a writer like you."

"I don't have time for Facebook," he said."I'm too busy defending my house from woodpeckers."

"Dinosaurs," I said.  "You're defending your house from dinosaurs."

"Okay, dinosaurs," he said.

"Now, didn't I just make you feel like your life is a TEENY bit more fun?" I said.

 A smile played across his lips. "Maybe."

"See? I'm like a woodpecker poking holes in the siding of your depression," I said.

"I guess that would be one way of looking at it," he said.

Merry-go-round

Sometimes I find myself very annoying. Such as this morning at 4 a.m.

 I was sleeping quite soundly (dreaming of sunshine and lollipops and toyboys) when suddenly...I woke myself up.

"Go away," I said to myself. "I'm sleeping."

"I know, but I need to talk to you," I replied.

I kept my eyes closed, feigning sleep, but it didn't work. I kept on talking to myself. Finally I sat upright in bed. "What do you want?"

"I want you to read the short story I wrote last night," I said. "I don't know if it's any good."

"Okay. I'll give it a read." I got out of bed, sat down at a table, and quietly read the story. When I finished, I put down the manuscript and stretched my arms over my head. "Nice work. It's a cute story. I like the way global warming is described through the eyes of a bumble bee."

"I did that because a bumble bee has multiple eyes, and global warming is a complicated issue." The excitement in my voice was palpable.

"Yes, I got that," I said.

"Did you like the plot? " I said. "I storyboarded the hell out of it beforehand."

"The plot is great." I stood up and paced back and forth. "But I don't think 'It was a dark and stormy night' is a good opening sentence."

I sat down at the table and leaned forward, shaking my head in protest. "But it matches the title".

"The opening sentence doesn't have to match the title," I said.

I folded my arms. "Mine always do. It's the way I stand out from the other writers."

"When did you decide that?" I said.

"Just now," I said.

"Well, then you'll have to change the title too," I said.

"Why?" I said.

"Because I read somewhere that a short story should never begin with a description of the weather," I said. "That's the kind of dumb mistake amateur writers make."

"It wasn't a description of the weather," I said."It was description of the apocalypse."

"Good point," I said. "But since the bumblebees rescue everyone in the end, it's technically not the apocalypse."

"Okay, I'll change it so everybody dies in the end, including the bumblebees," I said.

"But then what are we left with, if everybody's dead?" I said.

"We're left with a dark and stormy night," I said. "Everything will come full circle."

 "Now, that would be a great story," I said. "Nobody ever wins against a circle."

Narcissus and Echo

I was traversing the lobby of a medium-sized local art venue when I encountered a ruggedly-handsome man of my acquaintance. He's a painter (a good one) and I respect his opinion a lot.

"Hey, Nancy," he said. "I saw your show at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts."

"Cool," I said. That show happened six years ago but I still hear a lot about it.

"That was a great show," he said. "Almost every painting in that show was a masterpiece."

"Thanks," I said.

"There's one big problem with your art, though," he said. "There's too much of you in the paintings."

"That's kind of the point," I said. "Putting myself in the paintings."

"But you could make big bucks as an illustrator if you took yourself out of your paintings," he said.

"Other people have told me that too," I said. "You might be right."

He aimed his big, gorgeous grin in my direction. "So, do you plan to follow my advice?"

"No," I said. "But thanks anyway. It's very good advice."

And I meant it. It's very good advice.

Nobody Understands Me the Way That You Do, oil on canvas, 2014