Faceless and fearful

But, dammit, I want my 15 seconds. Who does one have to scandalise or kill around here to make a difference? Common causes don’t work anymore, the beauty queens have seen to that. I mean sure I want a cure for AIDS, I want to work for world peace, I think Third World debt should be erased (and thank Bono for imparting the necessary dose of glamour to put that on the map).

Starving refugees don’t get more than a half-second on primetime anymore, but celebrity endorsement, sure that’s a crowd-puller. Whatever that says about our increasingly materialistic, superficial era, I don’t care, I want in! I want to leave a footprint on the sands of time. Some sort of legacy. Okay, I admit this is a bit premature — I’ve barely started functioning as an adult and I’m already planning the posthumous party, but hey you got to have a plan these days. Next thing you know, you’re six feet under and no one’s interested.

So, assuming I don’t manage to leave an indelible mark on our collective consciousness, what then? On Judgment Day, do I get pulled up before a divine jury, sentenced to an eternity in purgatory, no, not for stealing that chocolate bar when I was 10, not for any of the illicit, morally ambiguous things I might have pulled…No, my fear is that I’ll be condemned for leading the most mundane, mind-numbing life ever. Nietzsche’s eternal return — now there’s a horrifying thought.

Unless I create something, write a book, make a movie, anything that has a longer shelf life than me. No, Mr Friedman, I don’t think Arafat has a thing to worry about. It’s us regular folk — not common enough to count as the teeming masses, not significant enough to even register a blip on the global radar.