The shame of fame

I suppose it's the price to be paid for living in Southern California, but my daughters seem to be obsessed with fame. Of course it doesn't help that they actually go to the same private school attended by some of Hollywood's A-list families.

Years ago I had the displeasure of sitting through a school production of Anything Goes.

Directly behind me were Demi Moore and Ashton Kutsher. They were rude and obnoxious, as if their daughter, Eagle or Raindrop or Chickweed, were the only kid in the play.

Thankfully, they transferred out of the school, presumably to be in the company of other over-indulged celebrities. Good riddance.

We have a new AA++ celebrity at school this year, whose name I dare not speak but who's quite handy with a soccer ball. I have it on good intel that he, and his celebrity wife, are actually quite down to earth and pleasant to be around.

I suppose I might have come to California in search of a little fame, but I abandoned that a long, long time ago. It is, as many discover, a false dream. And truth be told I'd much rather have dignity than fame.

The Candyman must be turning in his grave knowing his likeness had been turned into a cartoonish, nappy-headed salami. (Can I say nappy-headed? Is that politically incorrect? Apologies in advance if I have delved into any political incorrectness.)

The greater offense belongs to the Roll N' Rye Deli who have besmirched the image of the one-eyed Rat Packer to shamelessly hawk fatty, well-cured meat.

Thankfully, I will never have to worry about anyone ordering a Salami Davis Jr. on Rye with a side of SiegelSlaw.