On a distant planet not very much like ours save for the presence of art and venality, a famous singer stood onstage next to a famous author. Down the line was a famous painter, a famous actor, another famous singer, and then the president of the planet. They shook one another’s hands. The first famous singer, the most famous person onstage, far more famous than even the president of the planet, stepped up to the microphone. “The more I learn,” the famous singer said, “the less I know.” The audience laughed appreciatively. “The more I do,” he said, “the less I have done.” More laughter. “I am four hundred years old but I don’t feel a day over seventy.” When the applause died down, the rest of the luminaries took their turns. The author read from a new poem. The painter exalted the eyes. The actor read from a monologue that had been written by one of the author’s chief rivals, an ex-wife. The other famous singer approached the microphone in a slouch. “Hey there,” he said. He considered the crowd levelly. His long pause brought as much laughter as the other singer’s dicta. Finally he spoke again. “One thing I hope not to feel when I am four hundred is seventy.” The first famous singer, the more famous one, came to his feet as if he had been challenged to a duel. The president hurried to the microphone to repair any damaged feelings.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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