i’m wearing my flip-flops today. they’re the grey gap ones i wear quite often, whenever the weather is nice. as i sat in class today, i got to thinking about these flip-flops. i bought them in the summer of 2002 if i’m not mistaken, although it could have been 2003. i was shopping at gap with matty. a friend had given him a “friends and family” discount card good for 25% off anything, so i tagged along to try and get in on the deal.

i don’t remember if i purchased anything else that day. i may have bought a shirt or a pair of jeans or something, but it is the flip-flops i remember buying. they were hanging there on the rack on the left side of the store, towards the back, on sale for $1.97. If you’re doing the math at home, they came out to $1.49 with the discount. actually, i hope you didn’t get out your calculator just now, because they should have charged me $1.48, but for some reason they wanted that extra penny. still, for less than the cost of a cup of plain starbucks coffee, i had what would become a very dear part of my wardrobe.

sandals and i have never gotten along all that well. i used to have some with velcro straps, those ones that cover both the top and the back of your feet, but i never cared for them very much. also, during my cool middle school years i got some adidas adi-sage sandals, the kind with the little bumps that are supposed to massage your feet, but really just hurt like the dickens. when i lived in dallas for a few months, there was a swimming pool across the street, and sometimes i opted to walk barefoot on the blacktop, in dallas, mind you, in the summer, rather than enduring the torment of those ruthless little bumps. but adi-sage sandals were very trendy at the time, so i’d wear them with socks when i went to school, but then that sort of defeated the purpose of wearing cool sandals.

i had never really given flip-flops a shot before that day at gap. the flap that comes up between the big toe and the next one over had always irked me. it just seemed like nothing was supposed to be occupying that space. but for whatever reason, something drove me to buy these ones for $1.49. i put up with the flap between the toes until i didn’t notice it anymore.

well, i’m not entirely sure which summer it was that i purchased my flip-flops, but i have worn them regularly ever since. they have given me my money’s worth, i figure. this summer i actually went shopping for new ones, but i couldn’t find any i liked as much, so i’ll keep on trucking, so to speak, till i can truck no longer. the grey rubber soles are getting worn through, down to the layer of black, in a way that hints at my slight pigeon-toed walk. also, upon examining the bottom of the soles, you’re sure to notice little criss-cross indentations, souvenirs from the time i propped my feet up at a campfire and then proceeded to walk around on grass. i have also recently noticed that on the left flip-flop, the strap that comes up between the toes is about to bust loose at any moment, rendering the entire pair of footwear useless.

to be honest, i love these flip-flops much more than when i first got them. they have become so near and dear to me that the outline of the inverted v-shaped nylon strap that holds my feet in place has left an outline of pale skin on the tops of my feet. that kind of thing happens when you are a white guy who wears flip-flops outside in the summertime on a regular basis.

so hats off, flip-flops. you’ve seen me through a lot of sticky situations, as the gum residue on your under-carriage can attest. we’ve had good times, and we’ve had our share of bad. you’ve covered a lot of ground, from crusty showers in toronto, kenya and italy to the streets of lancaster, and for that i offer my heart-felt thanks. you have lived a good life, and when you go, i hope you go with your dignity. rest assured, i won’t be forgetting about you anytime soon.

we got a late start, leaving millersville around five pm. traffic presented itself to us as an obstacle and we had to find a new route to compensate for the haywire. we stopped at a rest stop along the turnpike for pizza and some conversation about u2 and wine in europe. when we got back on the road, i glanced at my watch and realized it was already 6:57, just three minutes until showtime, and our destination was still a significant distance away.

brock and i were on our way to philadelphia, to the theater of living arts on south street to see over the rhine play. after ticketmaster had its way with us, we ended up spending $23 each, and certainly neither one of us was all that interested in missing the show due to tardiness. but we were in my car which hasn’t learned to evade the laws of physics, so we just had to pass cars when we could and realize we’d get there when we got there, and not a minute sooner.

once before, a year or two ago, i had been nominated to serve as navigator for a trip to a concert with folks from a friend’s church, since i was the only one who had ever been to that part of philly before. they even paid for my ticket as a way of saying thanks. on that occasion, we ended up missing the exit by a long shot, ensuring us a fashionably late arrival at the venue.

in retrospect, i really should have examined a map and paid attention to exit numbers this time around, but when we saw the sign that said something about the upcoming exit being the last one before jersey, we realized i had done the same thing all over again, and that we were on the wrong side of town. the guy at the tollbooth assured me that my woes were few and that 95 would take me right where i needed to go.

sure enough, following toll booth guy’s directions, i found center city without a problem and soon we were passing lombard and hanging a louie on south street, in search of parking. every light seemed to be turning red, just like they always do when you have somewhere to be.

brock spotted a vacant spot on the right, so i slowed down, put on the turn signal, and he jumped out to guide me in. the taxi driver was getting impatient with me as i backed up, undoubtedly whispering things under his breath like go back to lancaster, country boy. aside from helping him work on the virtue of patience with my many ups and backs, and the light bump on the front of the jeep in the spot behind me, all went well. we examined the sign above my car, the sign mounted on the green metal pole with holes in it. the sign told me i could park there for two hours, 9am to 9pm. i scrounged up a few quarters, just to get us past 9, and we were on our way down the street, weaving in and out of the people with less impending schedules, people content to just mill about, smoking cigarettes and talking on cell phones. we jogged and walked and ran, whichever felt right at each moment, depending on the density of people in our path and the speed at which taxis approached on the side streets, and that sort of thing.

as it turns out, the show didn’t start until 8pm, so we were right on time, despite our worst fears. the opening act was a young lady with a pretty great voice, but it seemed awfully odd that it was just her up there, singing, wearing a dress and playing an electric guitar. the audience showed her a remarkable degree of respect, even when she told us about the parking ticket she had received the night prior in new york city. i leaned over and whispered to brock that not many openers could get away with talk breaks like this, but i wanted to be quiet because no one else in the place was talking.

wouldn’t you know it, but the girl next to me on the left was someone i had been acquainted with a couple years ago at millersville when i’d been a part of the campus intervarsity chapter. we chatted briefly about her going to grad school and living in philly and about me almost being done with college and then she got offered a seat up front so we said goodbye, nice seeing you to each other. to brock’s right was a woman with someone i took to be her daughter. the daughter had an italia warm-up jacket on, so i asked her about it and she told me about her trip there in june and july, and i told her about my trip in may. and then we were done talking, so that was that.

over the rhine is simply amazing. sure, they ooze artsy-fartsyness, almost to the point of needing to step out for fresh air, but as far as musical talent goes, they have it down. all the same, we marveled that people this strange could get by in society with real people who don’t get to sing about fireflies every night for a living.

linford and karen are married, and though they have a band behind them, they are the meat and potatoes of over the rhine. linford plays the keys while karen sings and looks good. i guess she has to look good to make up for linford’s dorkhood. most of the time he is just over there in his own world, swaying to and fro behind that keyboard, glancing up every now and then and occasionally flashing a smile. when he stood during one song to play the bass, i almost called the awkward police to report the offense. it was really pretty uncomfortable to watch.

the drummer was amazing. one wouldn’t know how amazing he is until they have tried keeping rhythm to slow music and then you realize it takes one heck of a drummer to make it happen. i know nothing about what it takes to make a good bassist, but i’m sure their bassist was top notch as well.

on the way back to the car we discussed how great the show was and how it was worth every penny of that $23 we had dropped on it. when the car came into view, we discovered a white paper pinned beneath the windshield wiper on the passenger side of the car. upon closer inspection, i learned i had violated a law saying that only handicapped persons could park when i did. i turned my gaze to the sign i had inspected earlier, the sign mounted on the green metal pole with holes in it, the sign that said i could park there for two hours, 9am to 9pm. my eyes then shifted slightly upward, and at that point i noticed another sign, a blue one with a wheel chair and a warning saying that parking here would cost me $300. and so it did.

parking in front of a driveway, double parking, or parking on a sidewalk (all seemingly pretty comparable offenses as far as I’m concerned), would have only cost me $35.

as we headed out of philly, i tried to admire chinatown, the skyscrapers, the illumined cathedrals and the clock towers, and i had the windows down so that the cool night air could pour in and the warm tones of over the rhine could spill out into the streets of the city that cares so deeply for their handicapped citizens.

it’s funny to me how people think that because someone is an actor or a politician or a rock star that they are therefore to be revered. it’s even funnier to me that though i find such a thing rather odd, i am just as inclined to revere someone famous as is the next guy.

* * * * *

last new year’s eve, i was hanging out in downtown lancaster with a bunch of friends for the festivities, which included tons of obscure musicians playing here and there. we heard a few songs by an irish duo in an old episcopal church, we heard and watched some native americans chant and dance in the basement of some other building, and my friends, the suburban sound, rocked out in the ballroom of the masonic center. basically there was stuff going on all over the city, but it all culminated before midnight in the center of the city where a band played patriotic songs and welcomed in the new year with auld lang syne, a tune i’ve never tracked with. the city’s emblem, the red rose, was either lowered or raised (i forget which), a la new york city, and the night sky erupted with a dazzling array of fireworks.

when the last bomb had burst and the last horn had been blown and the masses had scattered to make their way home, we were still in the square chatting, when next thing we knew, there, approaching us in the street, just twenty feet away, was charlie smithgall.

now, to most of you, the name charlie smithgall doesn’t mean much of anything. you have probably never heard of the guy, and you’re probably wondering why i would mention him when i am writing about celebrities. well, i’ll have you know that charlie smithgall is the mayor of the city of lancaster, and to us 500,000 lancastrians in the county, smithgall is a bit of a celebrity.

to be honest, i don’t know much about the guy, and recently discussed with someone whether he was a republican or a democrat, but i do know that he really likes canons, those mighty weapons of old, intended to kill pirates on the high seas. he loans them to the fireworks people at longs park every fourth of july so they can fire them off during the one symphony piece. i also know that the smithgall family used to own a pharmacy and that my friend judy used to get ice cream there when she was growing up. i know this because she once told me so when we were comparing bragging rights. i think i countered with the fact that christian musician steve green has a nephew in guatemala at the school i attended through ninth grade. or maybe i told her that eugene h. peterson, the guy who wrote the message, has hoiland for a middle name, and because of that, of course, i am cool.

anyway, on new year’s eve, when we spotted charlie smithgall, i suggested (with a shameful degree of excitement) that we really ought to go get our picture taken with him. no one objected, and before you knew it we were all surrounding the mayor. his wife wasn’t going to be in the picture but we insisted that we liked her too, but really we just didn’t want her to know that we valued her husband more than her because he was famous and she wasn’t. i positioned myself next to him, on his left, and as we all squeezed in together for the photo, he rested his hand on what i’m sure he thought was my lower back but was, in actuality, my upper buttocks. this was strange for me, as i never imagined that i would find myself in this situation, with my arm around the mayor, with his hand on my posterior.

* * * * *

maybe i was excited to get my picture taken with the mayor because i really don’t come in contact with celebrities all that often, and i take every opportunity i can get to obtain bragging rights, for conversations with judy, among others. for instance, there are a couple of politicians who are members at my church. on a couple occasions, when one has walked past, i will lean over to whoever is lucky enough to be sitting next to me and i’ll whisper, that’s so and so. he’s a politician. i voted for him.

* * * * *

sometimes when i am in the restroom doing number two, i pretend like i am sitting down to an interview with david letterman. he is asking me about how i changed the world, and how so many people have been captivated by my writing and how my documentaries on pbs have uncovered massive injustices in third world countries and how i am up for awards for my photography and how i manage to keep my life in order with all the success i have enjoyed.

this goes on for a few minutes, as i give him very thoughtful and brilliant answers, and maybe slip in some dry humor here and there to charm the ladies. then, as i finish up what i’m doing in real life, i realize that people who watch david letterman wouldn’t care about me, even if i was a young writer who had written a book and had dabbled in some other forms of media. i wouldn’t make for exciting television. letterman has bigger fish to fry, like paris hilton or richard simmons. and even if i was asked to appear on the show, and even if someone watched the duration of the interview and nodded when i used cool words and sounded intelligent, i doubt i would have safety issues leaving the theater. no one would be waiting to jump me or anything. no one cares about people who write books.

in a way though, that would be the ultimate level of fame, the kind of fame that famous writers enjoy. i’d imagine most writers can shop at the grocery store or hang out at a cafe and not deal with a lot of paparazzi and not have to seclude themselves from society for the sake of their safety, since most people wouldn’t recognize them. you don’t often see stories of writers having affairs on the cover of the national enquirer, any more than you’d find them on the cover of weekly world news, having given birth to an alien baby that insists on eating rubber or something. as far as i’m concerned, that would be great, to be famous but able to go unnoticed. at the same time, writers get to enjoy hearing people talk about them if their book was worth talking about, and who knows, maybe someone could throw around bragging rights with their friends about having gone to school with the writer “back in the day, back before he was famous” or could relate stories to friends about meeting them somewhere, and the name would garner some respect.

i don’t want to be a celebrity, i really don’t. sure, i like to pretend i am sort of famous, but i can never envision myself being capable of maintaining my sanity if i had to live behind a gate in a multi-million dollar palace with pit bulls and surveillance cameras and body guards who follow me around. i don’t think many of the people we idolize in hollywood are really happy, and i think, in a sense, we did it to them. sure, they chose their occupation and worked hard to make it happen, but i doubt many of them bargained for the headaches that go along with it all, like not being able to just hang out in a park with the one they love, content to go unnoticed by the occasional passerby walking their dog or riding their bike.

* * * * *

i was always a huge baseball fan, and growing up in guatemala, you don’t get to attend many big league games, so whenever we were in the states during the summer visiting friends and family, i made it a point to get to as many games as i could. i’d always go early, eagerly awaiting the emergence of players from the dugout. i was never alone, and really, i had to squeeze my way through the other fans until i was close enough to lean over the railing and almost smell the grass, or at least the dirt on the warning track. we’d yell and scream and my heart would pound as the player i had pretended to be while swinging my bat in the backyard at home would walk past. most of the time, the player would ignore me and the rest of the other fans, and i would think to myself, he would sign my ball if he could, but he is busy, and with all these other people here, he can’t just sign my ball and then get back to stretching and socializing and taking some practice cuts. he’d have to sign for everyone.

nonetheless, i did get several autographs in my day. i have baseballs signed by david justice, bip roberts, tom goodwin, jim leyritz, and others. one time, rod carew, a hall of famer as far as i know, who was coaching with the angels for a while, threw me a baseball - one of those scuffed up batting practice ones that actual real-life players had used as they warmed up. i knew it was rod carew because i had a video series he put together that is supposed to help you play better baseball, but it never really helped my game all that much. i also have a framed color photo of edgar martinez which he autographed at some point before my grandpa won it at some raffle. my grandpa gave it to me when i pretty much drooled on it in their tv room in seattle, the room where i would watch mariners game religiously every evening that summer at 7:05 pacific time.

one other piece of memorabilia in my collection that is worthy of note is a black and white photo of frank thomas which he sent me when i wrote him and asked for an autograph while i was in middle school. my brother, having a much more scientific mind than myself, took a close look at it and stifled all my joy when he informed me that the autograph was printed, mass-produced, and that frank thomas had probably never even read my letter which i had so eloquently written.

i don’t think much about my memorabilia collection these days. frank thomas, in all his fake glory, rests on the top shelf in my closet, almost out of sight, and edgar martinez is collecting dust in the corner, with the occasional spider paying him a visit, leaving a cobweb behind as a token of respect. all those autographed baseballs are packed away in a box somewhere, and some of the signatures have smeared.

this is what seems to happen to celebrities, you know? they are given a whole lot of attention and respect and people try to be like them and next thing you know, they have been forgotten about. that is the only thing that really separates the famous from the rest of us - they are in the spotlight for a spell. whether you are on posters in bedrooms the world over, and dreamed about in backyards by middle school boys, or you go unnoticed by most of the people in your daily life, death has a way of leveling the playing field. only a few live on in the stories told by those down through history, and i doubt very much that the people who are going to be talking about centuries from now are the actors and pop stars and the baseball players who write their names in cursive on round pieces of leather.

death can be, at best, sobering, and at worst, terrifying, but for those of us who believe that we’ll spend eternity with the Famous One in a place that knows no dust, no cobwebs, no smears, a place so glorious and incomprehensible to our finite minds that we can only draw pictures of clouds and palaces and white people with wings and scratch our heads at the mystery of it all, we don’t need to lose sleep over the fact that one day, we will be forgotten about here on earth. i have come to terms with the fact that i will probably not be talked about hundreds or thousands of years from now like people talk about aristotle or michelangelo or albert einstein or gandhi or moses or king david or Jesus. i will probably never even appear on david letterman’s show to talk about my books and documentaries and prize-winning photography. but when you realize that the famous people in the world are probably no more happy than any given employee at a gas station or at a roadside diner, it kind of frees you to be ok with obscurity. and if you are still interested in leaving a legacy worth talking about, you could try investing in people’s lives and doing something to make this world a better place, more heaven-like, so that people can get a taste of what we have to look forward to.

because the truth is, nothing in this world can satisfy like Jesus. His is the only fame that will never fade, and if i can wrap my mind around that concept and try to live in light of that knowledge every day, i think that maybe the concept of celebrity as this world knows it won’t mean as much to me as a hill of beans.