| Yes, Sir, I am a famous artist. Very famous, indeed. Today, on Saint Patrick’s Day, I became aware of it once again. I was sitting in a corner of a hopelessly overcrowded Irish bar in midtown Manhattan, holding a beer mug in my hand, just like everybody else in the throng around me.
“Where are you from?” The voice belongs to a charming young lady next to me. Now, when anybody asks you that question, you know that person is not from New York.
“I am from 72nd Street.” That sounds cool.
“Really? And what do you do for a living?”
“I am an artist.”
“Really? Do I have to know you - are you famous?”
“Sure I am famous.”
“Then, what do you paint?”
“Oh, I am a body painter.”
“Really? Would you paint my body?”
“Sure I would. The problem is that my body paintings cost a lot of money.”
“Really?” The young lady turns around to her friends.
“This man lives in Manhattan. He is a famous body painter, and he gets a lot of money for it.”
Suddenly, I have become the focal point of admiration. I feel like Queen Elisabeth waving to the crowd. |