The Greatest Star
When I was in fifth grade, I wrote my first play. My co-star was a small toy plastic donkey that squeaked when you squeezed it. We killed it.
Now, if you could ask my attending audience (aka my parents) if they agreed with my critique, you may not get the same answer. Audiences are fickle.
For the days after that first, captivating performance, I laid on my bed and imagined that my attending audience was shouting things like "Bravo!" and "Encore!" rather than "Move your head!" and "We're trying to watch Barney Miller!" I dreamt about future performances and what I could write about next. I dreamt and watched my co-star's life slowly fade before my eyes. He was plastic. And when I got too deep in thought, I chewed on things.
Enter Bucky the Bunny. Bucky was no ordinary co-star. He could do flips and dances. He was mesmerizing on stage. He took quite a hit during our first performance, and I mean a literal hit. It was something with tomato sauce on it. (My audience was trying to watch MASH.) But we survived. And of course, also killed it.
As the production seasons went on, Bucky started to fade from Stage 4 seam rippage. It was time to go out on my own. I would lay in bed at night and plan my show for the next evening. I made a deal with my audience to only perform during the commercials. This truly boosted my appeal and while I can't say it earned me any loyal followers, it did keep me from being thumped with dinner rolls.
And that was good enough for me. Because I was an actor. A producer. A playwright. A director. And I was the greatest performer in all the land.
Thanks to Ms. Streisand for inspiring me to stick to doing what I love. American beauty nose or not.
