The Myth of the VIP

I know about drinks with New Yorker art critics, department heads of the Metropolitan, famous comedians, Grammy winners, events among the cypress of the magnificent villas of Tuscany. 

And guess what? It doesn’t make me matter.

Am I making a mockery of my more “highbrow” experiences? 

No, I’m playing with all judgmental standards that should give me “points” because of my proximity to “importance”. 

I learned from my sage-like Dad that if I wanted to know “God”, I’d find him/her/it in the person behind the counter, the person collecting sap, the person at the toll booth. 

I may have had dinner with the very actors responsible for bettering my adolescent life, or curators with their fingers on the button of art world control, but I have had just as much fun chatting with my elderly neighbor in the laundry room. 

My Dad is the man who took his Ivy League degrees, his big job and his Porsche, and drove to a farm. He lived in a tent surrounded by cows and shoveled manure by day. His quest to shed standards was certainly hardcore in nature, but for him, there was simply no other suitable way forward. He met my Mother in that transition.

I am thankful for the richness of my every life experience. But most thankful am I to have had some good training about what constitutes… true importance. 

They say that when you die, it’s not what you accomplished or acquired that will matter to anyone, it’s about how you showed up for them… irrespective of their job title or associations, it’s about how you made them feel.

So here’s to all those who consider everyone of equal value. 

My Dad, he’s a real VIP. 

I hope to be one someday, too.

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Shot of me and composite work by my Johnny! ??