Amelia Earhart was a childhood hero of mine. Of course by childhood, I refer to a period of time that stretched well into my early twenties...but I'm growing up now.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

In Celebration of Over 1500 Weblog Hits

(At least half of which are probably me)

I suppose mine is a rather common tale. I grew up outside of a small suburb outside of a small city in a state whose entire population is less than the city of Los Angeles (not even the greater LA area, just the actual city.) And I was convinced from the time I was very small that I was going to be spectacularly famous – the most influential and important mind/actress/musician/author/athlete/artist/philanthropist/
activist/politician/businesswoman/clothing designer that ever, ever lived.

Now, as I got older, I started subtracting some of those slashes, but I never wavered in my belief that someday I would “make it big” in one of these arenas, and then branch out and eventually become famous for simply being me and doing all the things that I assumed I was brilliant at. (Not to be confused with the celebrity of certain individuals – e.g. Miss P.H. - who truly are famous merely for existing). Please understand that when you don’t live in Hollywood and are all jacked up on the kind of disillusion that comes from watching far too many films containing “getting better at your talent” montages, dreams like mine can seem completely plausible.

Even before I moved to LA for college, I’d already lost a lot of the disillusionment, figuring that if I hadn’t made a splash on the global scene by age 16 that I was already washed-up. Still, being in the land where dreams go to die, I held out some hope that maybe I’d be walking down a street, in line at the grocery store or auditioning for Blind Date and suddenly be “discovered.” Nevermind, that in reality I find that whole notion extremely superficial and a bit silly – talent agents don’t stop people in the street and tell them that they have just the right look to be the next Secretary of State. Even so, it was a sad day when I finally had to admit to myself that the only way I’ll ever see a framed autographed picture of my face hanging in restaurant is if I nail it to the wall myself when the waiter isn’t looking.

I think I have a slightly more reasonable dream now: actually getting paid to do what I like. Maybe someday it will happen. And hey, if, in the process, I ever get famous, my additional dream is to have a good run and then fan the embers of my dying career into a gig hosting a game show…in prime time…on a Friday.


In other news, I recently got really excited about a vacuum I received for my birthday (selected after much Consumer Reports research), and I added “Murder She Wrote”, Season 1 to my Netflix queue. So, in an official nail-in-the-coffin sort of way, I have given up any claim I might formerly have had to being hip and/or cool or to have any idea as to what the kids are up to these days. Another time I’ll tell you how my new denture paste is working out, but only if you keep the noise down.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Victoria said...

Hey Kari!
I found your blog after you became my myspace friend. It's really good and really funny! It'll now be included in my "list o' blogs I read every day."
So, how're things? You're working at 'SC? That's cool.
I am a copy editor for a publishing company--it's a really cool job. And if you're into tennis at all, you definitely need to check out DEUCE magazine--my company put it out and it's cool. July 11.
Hope all is well with you!

8:56 PM

 

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