Beaten to Fame By an Unlikely Opponent

I've wondered what it must feel like to be a star parent, like Britney Spears' mom or Justin Bieber's dad.  You're a regular person (for now) with your own aspirations (to be famous soon, the only worthy pursuit), trucking right along on your path to something better when suddenly your own kin--someone for whom you've provided for decades and who, frankly, slowed you down in the process--races past you and winds up in the pictures.  And you just become so-and-so's dad. 

*Flush*   That's your career. 

I know what it feels like, because it's just happened to me. Except, I don't have a kid.  I have a car. 

Out of the spotlight, I affectionately refer to my car as "The Time Machine."  It's a 1984 Volkswagen Jetta that is equipped to run on WVO (look it up), and that is a great help to me.  The car gets me places in a theoretically-carbon-neutral way and I, in turn, change its oil.  We have always had a mutually beneficial relationship.

I mean, sure . . .

. . . when people would introduce me, they would add right away, "Ask him about his car." 

. . . and when people would see me and my car on the street, they'd stare at my car, but not me.

. . . and as the years have passed, my mechanic has hassled me about inspecting my car more than my doctor has hassled me about inspecting me . . .

But all of that was fine . . . really . . . we both got our time in the spotlight . . . until Hollywood came to town. 

See that?  That's a check from Los Angeles.  BECAUSE MY CAR IS GOING TO BE IN A MOVIE. 

And it didn't have to learn any sides, or do a screen test, or anything.  It just had to be itself. 

I guess it really is a time machine, because it's gotten itself to the future ahead of me.

Fine.  I hope while it's there, it doesn't forget who took care of it through its early years.  I hope it remembers who drove its career through miles 192,451 to 220,815.  I hope it starts a blog so it can remember being regular. 

Then, I hope it breaks down during an important interview and ends up in rehab.  Because I won't be there.

By the way, when my car's check arrived, it was sandwiched between two Netflixi (the plural of Netflix). 

The message?  My car gets to be in movies.  I just get to watch them.

You know what I say to that?

. . .

"Please take me with you."