Peek-a-boo. Bet you can’t take my picture. Snap. Oh, no. You didn’t get my face. Snap. Only got the top of my head. Snap. Laughing. Keep it up and you might just do your job. Snap. Missed again. Snap. No selfies for me. Snap. Hey, that’s not fair. You caught me when I least expected it. Snap. Hey, c’mon. That’s not fair. Snap. Give me that camera. Snap. C’mon. Snap. Thanks a lot. Snap. I had better not end up on Instagram. Snap. Or any of those other grams. Snap. All right. Snap. That’s it. That’s the last one. Hey, where you going? Don’t you want to take my picture. C’mon back. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please. Pretty please with Kodak on it.
BE FAMOUS FOR BEING FAMOUS
Do you have an inner Snooki trying to get out? Do you think that your inner Kim Kardashian hasn’t had a chance to shine? Do you think that the world is ready for another Paris Hilton and that Paris is you? Is your Justin Bieber wanting to come out and make a fool of himself? Well, guess what?
Uncle Bardie has News for you. He has decided to bring back his School of Celebritology. Over the years, there have been so many graduates, who have become world class celebrities, Uncle Bardie can’t name them. If he left one out, that person might feel slighted. Just take Uncle Bardie’s word for it. There have been many.
Do you need to be talented? Absolutely not. In fact, talent could very well be your worst enemy to becoming a successful celebrity. Do you need to be rich? No, you do not. You could very well have learned all the wrong things if you grew up rich. Only one rich person has become successful as a celebrity and that’s Paris Hilton. And she had to earn her celebrity status the same way as all celebrities do. She had that moment in the sun. That fifteen minutes of fame.
So what qualifications do you need to attend Uncle Bardie’s World Famous School of Celebritology. None really. In fact, any qualification you might have could very well be a detriment.
WHAT YOU GET
All you need is $50 grand to attend. Then a degree from Uncle Bardie’s World Famous School of Celebritology is yours. With that degree comes with a Money Back Guarantee. You will get your Fifteen Minutes of Fame or you will get your money back. What you do with that fame is up to you. We can’t promise you more than fifteen minutes. But most of our alumni have taken their Fifteen Minutes and run with it. Only you can make it happen. But You Can Make It Happen.
Here are some of the Courses you will take.
Paparazzi 101. Taught by Mister Paparazzi himself.
How Not To Be Invisible 101. Taught by The Show Offy Crowd
How to Make the Right Connections. Taught by Shirley Congeniality.
What To Wear And When To Wear It. Taught by P. J. Fashion.
How To Be The Center of Attention. (How Not To Be Invisible 201). Taught by Mister Ostentatious.
How To Appear Rich, No Matter How Poor You Are. Taught by More Money Than God
Interview 101: How to be interviewed and say absolutely nothing. Taught by the Interview Meister.
How To Comb Your Hair In Public. Taught by Mister Comb.
How To Get “It”. Taught by It.
As you progress through these courses, you will get opportunities to meet the famous and the near famous.
Uncle Bardie’s School of Celebritology School Song
Plus you could be one of those chosen to join Uncle Bardie’s School of Celebritology Chorale. Then you will get to sing our School Song at all kinds of events and award ceremonies.
Join us at Uncle Bardie’s
School of Celebritology
Soon you will have a Master
Degree in Super Star-ology
1.You won’t have to be talented
You don’t have to be good
You can be trailer trash
Or an old chunk of wood
2.Anything is possible
If you think you can
Just look at Forrest Gump
And the walk that he ran
3.You don’t have to have brains
The less you have the better
Just look at the Scarecrow
He never learned his letters
4.You will go anywhere
And stand out in that crowd
Your fans will ooh and ahh
You will be the Big Wow.
So give us a call at Uncle Bardie’s School of Celebritology. The first one hundred to call will get a tote bag with the faces of Kim and Snooki and Paris right on it.
So there I am half asleep, sprawled out in my bed with the covers pulled over me. I duck my head under the covers because I am not sure I am seeing what I am seeing. After all it is early morning and I am still in a fog. I am always this way before I’ve had my first five cups of coffee in the morning.
I stick my head back out from under my covers, and yep, he’s there. It’s none other than Jerome David. I am talking the world-famous J. D., author of “Catcher in the Rye”. I recognize him from the jacket pictures. He’s as young as he once was. Somehow he’s dropped all those years since he died and he’s back to his youthful genius of a self. He’s standing at the end of my bed and he’s puffing on a cigar. I’m thinking it’s a Cuban cause they’re not banned from importing them in the hereafter. He’s halfway through the stoogie and he is frowning at me.
“So you didn’t care for Catcher in the Rye?” he asks, his foot propped up on the end of my bed.
“What? Who?” I ask from my prone position.
He sits his foot back down on the floor. “I asked you if you didn’t like my book. You responded with a what and a who. Who the hell do you think it is? It sure isn’t that son-of-a-bitch Hemingway. What an asshole. Papa indeed. I never much cared for him. Now Scott Fitzgerald, there was a writer who could write.”
“Go away.” I rub my eyes and turn over on my side, hoping that this is a nightmare and I will wake up soon.
“I will not go away. You’ve got a lot of gall not liking my book. I did some damned good writing with that book. Not as good as later but still it’s a great book, even if I say so myself, and you don’t like it. Who the hell are you?”
I turn over and face Salinger. “I am the fellow who is telling you to get out of here. That’s who.”
“It’s all about alienation, you know?”
“I. Know. That.”
“Oh, you do. Well, I guess you were never a teenager, suffering from all that teenage angst, were you?”
Now I am mad. How dare this s.o.b. come into my bedroom and tell me I was never a teenager suffering from teenage angst. I had more teenage angst in my little toe than his spoiled prep school kid had in his whole body. Holden Caulfield’s biggest problem was that he had one hell of a chip on his shoulder.
“That book is all bullshit. Pure All American bullshit.”
“Bullshit. What do you mean bullshit? I worked my butt off on that book for over ten years. Put my whole life into it and you say it is bullshit.”
“That’s what I say. I read it in high school and I just didn’t get it. I understand Hemingway’s Old Man. He was fighting for survival. I understand the Joads. They were fighting for survival. I understand Gatsby. He was fighting for romance. And, as far as angst, existential angst, goes, I understand Camus’ Stranger. He didn’t mourn his mother the way he was expected to. And he was condemned for it. But Holden Caulfield, all he was fighting for was to be an asshole. I kept wanting to say, ‘Get a life.'”
I can see Salinger clearly now. I’m awake and I can see the fake Buddhist with his hands in a fist. He crushes that cigar against the bottom of my foot.
“Oh. That hurt. Thought you were a Buddhist. You’re going to screw up your karma, you know.”
He ignores my Buddhist comment. Somehow I knew he would. “Critics. That’s why I gave up on a public life. Became a hermit. You’re all full of shit. A big bag of shit. Here I am, the world-famous J. D. Salinger, standing at the foot of your bed, trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. Trying to give you some insight into my brilliance. And all you can do is insult me. Why do I even care? But that’s my problem. I care too damned much. If you only knew how much blood I sweated into that book. Trying to make every word perfect.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” I say. “I didn’t say the writing wasn’t good. It was. Damned good. Some of your best. But it was so wasted over that Holden Caulfield. Thing is that I’ve known people who complained about their good fortune their whole lives. In my book that’s Holden Caulfield. I just don’t care one iota about those kind of people. Never did. Never will.”
“But that’s not the point,” Salinger goes on. “He brought out the best in me. I guess you just don’t get it. But a lot of other teenagers did. And still do. That’s why it’s so popular. Not that I wrote it to be popular. I didn’t. I wanted to call attention to what it felt like to be a teenager in fifties America. I hit the nail on the head. That’s why I went into seclusion. I got tired of all that hero worship. Like I had the answers to all of life’s questions. I was good, but I wasn’t that good. I had more questions than answers. Anyway I tired of it.”
Suddenly he had a martini in his hand. Where the martini came from I did not know.
He noticing me noticing his martini. “Shaken, not stirred. The way I like it. You know, Ian Fleming got that from me. We were at a party once. I had been invited down to Jamaica by some friends. I was thinking that the Glasses would be Jamaican. Who do you think shows up at this party? Ian Fleming. We were talking when I asked for a martini. When I said shaken not stirred, he said, ‘Oh, I can use that.'” He took a sip from his martini. “Mmmm. That’s good.”
“So you think,” I say, “Holden Caulfield was like every teenager in America at that time?”
“I don’t know about every teenager but it sure was the way I felt. I must say that all those people coming to me and telling me that I had saved them, that was a little too much. Like I am a Messiah or something. If you want stories about messiahs, read ‘Stranger in a Strange Land.'”
I am wide awake now. “Well, I am sorry I offended you with my comment. It’s just my opinion. You can take it for what it’s worth. Every writer has the write to create whatever character he wants. And every reader has the right to not like that character. Personally I liked your stories much more. Thought you had great insight into how children saw the adult world and how they communicated that. “
Then I realize I am talking to myself. The mirage, or was it a mirage, a hallucination, well, it’s gone. Since I am awake already, I throw off the covers and jump out of bed. Oh, I cry out. My right foot hurts. I sit on the side of the bed and take a look at the bottom of my foot. There’s a burn mark there all right. It can’t be. It just can’t be.