Wealth and Fame

Okay, Bush, I’ll cop to it: I’m starstruck. I’m impressed by wealth and fame. I sit there and goggle at the Oscars, as dazzled by the diamonds and designer gowns as I am by the smiles on all those famous faces. I’m hooked. At the same time, there’s a whole big cynical and protestant part of me that pretends to be above it all and, worse, judges not only the grandiosity and opulence, but also myself for being unable to resist its charms. My high-minded self serves up its condemnation of this shameless display of wealth, even while I sit there scoffing it down like chocolate ice cream. And then there’s this other big part of me wants to have my share of it.

I have rubbed up against it, Bush. Oh, yes. I had dinner once at an Italian restaurant with Archie Bunker, in the early 1970s, at the height of the “All in the Family” days. His face was one of the most familiar in the world, and it was strange sitting there knowing that everyone else in the restaurant knew who he was, and was probably wondering, who’s that sitting there with Archie Bunker? Maybe even wishing they were sitting there in my place. Oh, he was nice enough, I enjoyed his company. But much of the time I wasted, congratulating myself for sitting there with Archie Bunker. At the end of the meal, he stuck me with the bill.

The most famous person I ever knew was Frank Sinatra. I was Dean of the Arts at a Catholic university at the time, and the President (of the university, that is, Bush) had decided in his wisdom to give the singer an honorary doctorate. Had his eye on the money, I think, really. And the publicity. Anyway, I got to tell Frank I was his Dean as we were robing up in the chapel, and Frank was kind enough to chuckle at the thought. After the ceremony, at the reception, he stood around with his entourage telling dirty jokes in front of the nuns. He promised me, as a new alumnus, that he’d take an interest in the new recording studio we’d had installed for the music department, but once he'd picked up his degree, he never responded to my calls or letters.

I know one of the richest men in the world, too. Well, when I say know… I mean, he recognizes me and shakes my hand with seeming pleasure when we bump into each other, on occasion. That’s about the sum of it. I’ve known a number of very rich men, because I’ve been commissioned to write profiles of them for magazines. I flew in a corporate jet with one of them, and was greeted in the city of our destination by the mayor and the press. It was like a royal visit. One of the stories about this particular rich man was that Frank Sinatra threw an ashtray at him in a restaurant, because he’d had the nerve to complain about the star’s rowdy friends.

So there you have it, Bush. My brushing up with wealth and fame. I’ve given some thought as to why it attracts me as it does, and what I come up with is the desire I share, I guess with almost every human being, to be somebody. The Somebodiness of these people is unquestionable, and I feel like I’m sharing in it when I get close to it, even watching that damn red carpet stuff on the television. There’s something in me wants to make my mark in the world, in the course of my short stay. Something that wants to be known, to be recognized, to be admired, loved, celebrated. When that happens, even in a small way, sometimes, I feel a bit more validated as a person, as somebody. I feel like I've been put here for a reason.

Pathetic, really, isn’t it, Bush? Or so I tell myelf. One of the most interesting—and difficult—exercises I was ever confronted with, in my explorations in Buddhism, was when a teacher instructed me to meditate on not being somebody. He didn’t mean Somebdoy, with a capital ess, like those important folks. He just meant, somebody. Some body. An individual. A person. And I realized, as I tried, how much I have invested in somebodiness, in the trappings of that self I have constructed to make myself feel in some way valid, or important, in the world. To feel myself disconnecting from that was truly scary, as though my very existence depended on it.

I expect you’re wondering why I‘m taking up your time with all this stuff on a Tuesday morning early, Bush. I think it's because there has to be a nexus in there somewhere, that ties all this wealth and fame in with power. It’s all a drug, Bush. Somebodiness. We’re all enchanted by it and addicted to it, and none of it is doing the poor world any good. If we were not so hung up on being Somebody, or even somebody, most of us, I have to think the world would be a better place. But there you go. I guess that's human nature. If only we could all be more Buddhist. Even more Christian, if you like. Or let’s say, rather, christian, without the big C. You see what I mean?