Almost Kind Of Not Quite Famous

Okay:

I am not famous. Repeat: I am not famous.

I've never sold any records. I've only performed at small gig venues. I rarely ever leave the city.

I am not an Internet sensation. I probably know all my "fans" by first name.

Again, I am not famous.

My career is not in its infancy period. It's still gestating.

So, for the record, I am not famous.

I do, however, occasionally catch glimpses of what fame might be like. Sometimes, while I'm walking down the street, someone will recognize me. "Hey, aren't you Cool Cee Brown?"

To put it in perspective, it's happened about three times this year so far.

It always catches me off guard. And to be honest, it makes me nervous. Some part of me actually gets scared. I start thinking, "Did I sleep with his girlfriend or something?"

Once I caught myself balling my fists up.

Comments range from "I love your blog...especially the one about erectile dysfunction. That happens to me all the time" to "When's your new shit coming out?" or "When's the next show?"

Still, it's only happened a few times this year. I can only imagine what it's like to not be able to leave the house at all without being recognized. I'm just too socially awkward for that kind of thing. It would freak me out. I don't think I could ever get used to it.

Just yesterday I was in the elevator leaving work when a perfect stranger started talking to me. He was a young guy, maybe 20. Skinny, with long dookey locks. "Do you work here?"

Again, I caught myself balling my fists up.

"Yes."

"What do you do?"

"I teach English."

"English...that's one hell of a subject. Very important."

Then, I thought he was trying to hit on me. Which happens more often than I would like it too actually. The motherfucker at the Subway tried to hit on me last week. I don't even know what country the motherfucker's from. He can barely speak English, but someone taught him how to say, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No, motherfucker. Just give me my fucking sandwich."

I haven't been back since. And I love Subway.

But I digress. There was the young guy with dookey locks in the elevator.

"Yes. It's very important to read and write and stuff."

"You know. I do a bit of writing myself, actually."

This was probably worse than him trying to hit on me. At this point we were off the elevator and the motherfucker was walking me to my car. "Really? What kind of writing?" I asked, trying to be polite.

"Essays, plays, poetry. All types of shit."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Bust this..."

Then he started rapping. I wanted to run, but by then we were standing right in front of my car. I was trapped. I wanted to kill myself. You know like how a ferret will chew off it's own foot to escape.

The thing about it is, I felt extremely guilty about the whole thing. When I was his age, I didn't have the balls to just start rapping to perfect strangers.

"Maybe I could drop some stuff by your office next week and you could give me some honest critiques."

"Sure thing, bruh. Shit sounds hot. Bring it by whenever."

There are several morals to this story. Number one is, sometimes I allow myself to forget how weird I really am. Reminders like the elevator incident let me know why career has stalled out. People freak me out.

I'm an artist, so of course, I love attention. However, I may be unique in the sense that too much attention makes me extremely uncomfortable.

Extremely uncomfortable.

Another moral is part of choosing the arts as a career is politics. You gotta smile and shake hands sometimes, even when your mind is telling you, "Run, Cee Brown, before they get you!"

But, like I said, I'm not famous. So there's really nothing to worry about.


Thanks for reading.




GOBAMA!

Click here to download the new single: "No Fear" featuring Phonte and Asheru. It includes the Joe D remix, 2 b-sides and video interviews with Cool Cee Brown. FREE FOR A LIMITED TIME.

Factoid: Despite the occasional panicky feeling, I am always flattered. So, if you see me on the street, please don't hesitate to speak. I promise I won't punch you in the face.