I’m not famous, but I think I am.

There I said it.

That felt almost cathartic — like when a junkie finally admits his addiction.  Or when a God-fearing, religious zealot finally breaks down and bangs a hooker.  It’s delicious.

I’ve always wanted to be fame’s bitch.  From the minute I got the starring role in my 3^rd grade performance of “Jack & The Beanstalk”, I’ve had the bug.  I should probably take this opportunity to thank Miss Svoboda gave me my first starring role.  But as I look back, there was really no other 9-year old at Grandview Park Elementary that could have pulled it off with such aplomb.   I’d say she made the right choice – but that would imply she had other options.

Growing up, my larger-than-life personality was lost on my parents.  I’d often catch them sneaking looks at each other.   Those looks said, “Who IS this kid … and did we actually SPAWN him?”  I patiently waited for my big break smack-dab in the heart of rural Iowa.

30 years later, I’m still waiting.

Sure, there were a number of happenstances that only added fuel to my fame fire.  Once, when I was 20, a random woman asked me for my autograph.  I was her waiter at Pizza Hut.   She told me I was going to be a star.  Well, duh.  I could have told her that.  At my 10-year high school reunion, one of my classmates – who had become a male model for the Ford Agency – pulled me aside and said, “I really thought I’d see your name in lights by now.”

That makes two of us, Stephan.

Once, I made it all the way to the casting finals of MTV’s “The Real World: London” before getting the boot.  Michael, the sassy, chubby TV producer from Des Moines lost out to Mike, the wildly boring racecar driver from St. Louis.  I was devastated.

I’m sure my big break is still right around the corner.  I have no idea what that break will be … or when it will happen.  But someday people will say, “Hey, aren’t you …” and it will be followed up with my actual name.

The last few years it’s been “Hey, aren’t you our waiter?” or “Hey, aren’t you the guy who was helping us in Dressing Room #3?”

Fame is so close I can taste it.  And it’s delicious too.

My best friend Deirdre’s four-year old son Collin is precocious, adorable, inquisitive and all the other things you’d expect from a chatty pre-schooler.  He’s also a pain in my ass.  Not only do I have to watch my mouth, Collin will often call me on the carpet for various, off-the-cuff things I say.

For instance Collin said, “Michael, can I ask you something?”  And I responded, “Hit me.” He stopped cold and flatly barked, “We do NOT hit people in this house.”  (Nice to know his parents have stopped beating him.)  I tried to explain that “hit me” was simply an expression, but he was having no part of it.  At four years old, he takes everything literally.

Later, I was talking to Dre about my recent night out partying with The B-52’s.  I casually said, “Now that I’ve met The B’s, I can die.”  Of course, Collin overheard me and walked up, tugged on my pant leg and dramatically pleaded, “WHY do you want to DIE, Uncle Michael?”  Again, I tried to explain it was an expression.  He matter-of-factly said, “No one should have to die.  No one.”   I was totally busted.

The rest of the day I managed to save face.  I exchanged pleasantries with him and a box of Pepperidge Farm’s Mint Milano cookies.  We even went shopping at Target.  Deirdre shuffled us off to the toy aisle while she got her groceries and other sundry items.  I lasted about 10 minutes before I started to panic.  At the rate Collin was picking out things for me to buy him, I was going to be out about $22,000.

I guess the problem I have with kids is … well, their age.  I treat Collin like he’s forty-four instead of merely four.  I try to have in-depth conversations with him like I do with his parents.  Well, with his mom at least.  Collin’s dad is always up for heated political debates.

Frankly, I’d rather die.  (And, Collin, this time I mean it.)