An open letter
I know fame.
I’ve experienced fame.
And I now know the price of fame.
All without being famous.
Larry David, I want my life back.
I notice the illusion starts with the sideways glance, followed by a series of yes/no/can’t/could/not sure/but hey that leads to the soft opening: “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Larry David?” Ever? My new friend, you are the third person today.
On the way to the lav at a bbq restaurant (would Larry say lav?), I have to stop, smile, and even sign two autographs. “I really have to go now,” and excuse myself.
“Really? Must be.” A large woman from Philadelphia stops me at my son’s graduation. I point him out to her. She mutters a quick congratulations, followed enthusiastically by “Hey, can I get a picture? My friends won’t believe this.” No, no they won’t believe it.
A fist pump on the downtown 1 train. I am an amiable Mr. David. (You’re welcome Larry.) “This is Larry’s stop,” and I get off at Bleecker. I don’t know if this is Larry’s stop. I don’t know if Larry David would ever ride the subway.
“I saw a celeb today (I think).”
[My wife once saw Harrison Ford from our apartment window. Rushing outside to greet him, she told him that “(she) always thought (my) husband looked just like you.” “Well?” replied the famed raider. “Not at all.” “I didn’t think so,” said Harrison as he walked off. I’ve never had to ask that actor for my life back.]
I used to outright deny the association with Larry David. Nowadays, I don’t curb their enthusiasm, but I don’t egg ‘em on either. I try to leave my fans with the yes/no/can’t/could be ambiguity hanging in their minds.
For me, I don’t wake up in the morning, look in the bathroom mirror and get confused about my identity. Larry has perfect teeth; mine are a yellow Welsh-mishmash. So I try not to smile to break the illusion. I don’t voice with David’s gruff whine; that still doesn’t seem to matter to the fans.
A nod of the head, an autograph, a quick selfie: my price of fame is easily paid. But the benefits? Where are the invites to the Met Gala? Free food through comp’d meals? And who’s reading my scripts in Hollywood? Nothing. Nothing here.
So that’s the rub. I pay the price (you’re welcome Larry) but get none of the glamour or professional perks. Damn, not even a meatloaf, as rumour has it that Elvis Costello once received a homemade loaf in well-deserved adoration. No, not even the meatloaf.
So here’s the deal, Larry, and I hope you’re still listening. Toss me a couple of perks here. Perhaps an agent for my unpublished novels or greenlight funding for a couple of unproduced screenplays. Heck, I might even be hungry enough for a homemade Larry David meatloaf.
So, doppelganger, pony up…or at least give me my life back.