Jim “Fame Monster” Morrison
Posted on: March 17, 2010
Last night I went, as usual, to the Tuesday theatre meetings where writers hear their work read for the first time. I’m still pretty intimidated by the environment, but over the past 5 weeks I’ve made friends and brought friends to help bolster my confidence (or make me look less like the girl who didn’t bring a date to prom). Just last week a gentleman came over and said, “You look, like I feel. This is BS, right?” In this business we are constantly told to get ourselves out there. We write and act less but drink and schmooze more. It doesn’t seem like a bad tradeoff but being able to hold a glass of wine and not say anything stupid is exhausting. I often look at my closet and decide which outfit will show the least amount of sweat. Going through the gauntlet of charisma, connections and chemistry is equivalent to speed dating with a bunch of people who would rather spend time with their cat. Only the dogged survive.
I have this affinity however for older gentlemen who have nothing to prove. They sit, they listen, they watch. No, I don’t have daddy issues and I’m in a relationship with a younger man. But with age comes confidence, with years – experience, and with sensible K-Swiss shoes, comfort. A great patriot of the theatre sat beside me last night. Well into his seventies, with his thick bifocals and snowy hair, he settled down to sit, listen and watch. He said, “I’m a director looking to snatch up writers while they’re young.” I happen to be a young writer. I found out quickly he was more than just a director. His life story read like a bucket list. Amongst his reincarnations – the only photographer allowed in the Actor’s Studio to take picture of Lee Strasberg and partied with Jim Morrison in Barcelona for the film in which Jim would star and my new friend would direct. Too brilliant to be fiction, he shared the history of an artist’s life. He is the Forest Gump of New York, has met everyone and done everything.
Knowing the great Doors performer, he believes as Oliver Stone does, that Jim lived long after he was put to rest in France. My new friend posed the question, “If he did fake his death, why do it when at the top?” Was fame, adoration, and rock-stardom too much for this god amongst men? He posed this question while we were surrounded by aspiring actors rubbing shoulders so hard they might hit bone. What is the cost for the glory of ultimate fame and fortune? We know not the price but we are all willing to pay it.
buy the time ... 
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