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."