I performed a couple weeks ago at the Phoenicia Playhouse in Phoenicia, New York. As we wandered the town of Phoenicia and the adjacent town of Woodstock, NY, we continually encountered flyers advertising my performance.
Affixed to telephone poles. Posted in the bookstore and restaurants. Even an actual billboard (my first) (and probably my last) featuring my image on the turnoff into Phoenicia.
Charlie became especially enamored with the signage
“You’re famous, Dad,” Charlie said again and again.
I tried to dispel him of this notion again and again.
He really wants to think of his father as famous.
This week, I started teaching a new batch of fifth graders. On the first day of school, one of my students asked, “Are you famous?”
I assured him that I was not.
He frowned. “But my parents told me that you’re famous,” he said.
A student sitting beside him leaned over and said, “Tell your parents to call my parents. They’ll tell you how not famous he is.”
I won’t tell Charlie about this. It’ll disappoint him.
It even disappointed me a little.
