" C'mon everyone wants to be famous." claimed Phil the "writer" in the sublime Larry Sanders show when one of his behind the scenes chat show within a sitcom colleagues protested a little too much that she didn't want to be seen in front of the camera. He’s right.

I hope to suggest here that the chasing of fame is now eclipsing the search for artistic excellence.

But first, - mea culpa. I must be rigourous. I will not attempt to hide from the erudite, x-ray gaze, of you dear www peruser. What on earth is this column if not a deeply tragic case of chasing the very lowest level of fame available? A humiliating scrabbling around at the tuchus end of the fame ladder to see how many hits I can get to my fragile ego via my website.

Never mind your 15 minutes of Warholian television fame, no; - via the Internet everyone can have unlimited periods of fame - even if its only before 15 people. (Or less in my case, it would seem).

In the wake of the recent tragic, Agatha Christie style mystery murder of Brit TV personality Jill Dando, the fame game has undergone examination in the British press. As ever, the real life Frasier’s are called in to give their pontificating overviews. Psychotherapist Dr. Arik Sigman did make some sense to me. "People are now obsessed with being famous. Many seem to think their worth can only be legitimized by media acceptance"(One could add that even psychotherapists seem to crave media acceptance nowadays. No human interest story seems completely told in the press or on TV without the accompanying homily, or plain unremarkable common sense musings of, one "well respected" psychowatsit or another. Arik and his colleagues are stampeding over their couches, and knocking large volumes of Freud’s writings in their patients’ faces in their clamour to get these media gigs. ) In this instance however Mr. Sigman’s point is absolutely spot on.

You don't have to be wandering around the streets of Fulham with a black market gun in your Shoulder bag searching out A list celebrities to be an illustration of how the 90’s obsession with notoriety and fame has messed us all up. It's everywhere. Everyone has been conned into seeing media legitimization as the be all, and end all, the ultimate arbiter of their work (and often more tragically them themselves).

Let's start at the top of the showbiz success tree. The comically blessed Mr. Jerry Seinfeld stated that the success of his TV show proved to him that he was good. But why should a Comedy King like Seinfeld need such affirmation? Why does it prove his worth? His stand up material alone is some of the best ever, and he shouldn't have needed ratings and billion dollar contracts to know that he was good. Because there are plenty of very bad people with ratings and billlion dollar contracts.

The Spice Girls could no doubt argue that they are a better band than the Beatles because they’ve sold more records. But if anyone tried to tell you that you’d feel perfectly justified in stringing them up, attaching a cheesewire to their buttocks, and sending a billion and five volts through their anal passage.

There are a certain amount of stupid people in the world at any one time. They span a cross section of all ages and classes. They will watch just about any TV show, buy any records and vote for right wing political parties. Their affirmation doesn’t make something good. We wouldn’t judge a piece of food nutritious because a pig ate it when one waggled it under his nose.

Perhaps its not that important that bimbidiots like the Spunk (producing) Girls can become famous by manipulating the media despite never having written or performed one song of any worth. More depressingly great artistic talents buy into the myth. They become well known because of their talent and then end up playing the fame game. Before they know it they are chasing fame above brilliance. Look at Tarantino. Surely the most talented and innovative filmmaker of the last 10 years. Reservoir Dogs was such a revelation, as much for its fantastically original dialogue rivalling David Mamet in its witty locker room constructs, as for anything else. But as the equally talented but less "famous" Kevin Smith, (ARISE SIR KEVIN I GRANT YOU THE FREEDOM OF THE KONISBERG WEBSITE) director of the awesome Clerks" has said, "IT seems less cool now to be a Tarantino fan than after Reservoir Dogs".

I know what he means. Since our little star struck gawky Quentillope became a fully fledged Hollywood star with famous girlfriends and scrutinised private life, his actual WORK seems to have lost it a bit. To have taken second place behind the "star" Tarantino. The fame chasing Tarantino.

Understandably so. To be a video store clerk one week and then a superstar the next, to not fall into temptation and fulfill all your wildest dreams of great parties, abundant supplies of silicon Princesses, and narcotics delivered by the paperboy, must be near impossible. Particularly when you’re living in LA. But it’s too bad because its the WORK, the important thing, that suffers. In ten years time no one will care where Mira Sorvino met Tarantino, how much he loves her, or where he was when the decree nisi came through. They will only look back on his films.

Objectively I know that I’d be pretty miserable if I became at all famous.(lucky then there’s as much chance of that as of the Queen Mother and I sharing passionate French kisses on top of Mount Everest on Christmas day).

But surely no one could deny dreaming of fame. We’re all taken in by this aura around famous people.

Even serious fiction writers are swept into all this. Reluctantly accepting the insane media circus as the only way to flog books.

One does get the feeling that Will Self would prefer to be writing in a garret somewhere than doing endless chat shows and repetitive "celebrity interviews". Self knows however hard he works at his craft, however hard he flagellates himself to drain every last creative drop out of his body, every interviewer will be most interested in hearing about him taking heroin on John Major’s plane. The whole world has become a sort of big coffee morning waiting to hear the latest chitchat (or more usually slander) on the "stars".

Even people like the unusually intelligent Mr. Self cant help but play up to this and be drawn in.

There was a documentary on TV a while ago featuring a scally band from Manchester. An aspiring Oasis. The lead singer/songwriter, a fairly affable young man of around 20, was the mouthpiece of the band for most of the programme. But strangely, given his job, he hardly managed to speak about music at all. Instead he fantasised about what he would do with his money "when I’m famous". He’d already promised his Father a new car, and a great big house! Sweet as this was, (and admittedly it must be better to love your parents than music - at no point does the Bible for instance mention honouring your music teacher, but very prominently you are commanded to honour "thy Father and Mother")- it is hardly a man driven by an irresistible and internal creative fire. An artistic muse. It is the chasing of the most shallow happiness around. In 10 years time, if he makes it, he’ll most likely be doing an interview moaning about how constant press intrusion made him turn to heroin. How many messed up famous people do we have to see hanging out to dry on meathooks outside the Betty Ford Clinic before we cotton on that fame doesn’t make you happy? JD Salinger (may his name be praised) realized this after a couple of books & retreated to Cornish New Hampshire carrying a typewriter & an excellent command of words. Ironically for him his non-fame seeking stance and the enigma this has created, means he remains famous despite not publishing a book for 30 years. He is the world’s most (anti) famous recluse.

Parenthetically I think I have worked out the way to meet Salinger. (No one gets to meet Salinger anymore.) I am getting kicked out of my bedsit soon and have been looking around for something locally. Nothing seems available so I am contemplating upping sticks from London and moving to Cornish New Hampshire. When I move there I shall become a recluse and pay people to stand on my lawn and try and peep through the windows. (As they come from miles to do with poor JD). I’m hoping Jerome David will get pissed off, and come storming round and say "Hey what you playing at limey bastard? I’m supposed to be the famous recluse in this town? "

That’s my big plan to meet JD Salinger.

A recent documentary about Salinger on British TV actually interviewed some of Salinger’s house stalkers. One guy - a writer and part time journalist (but then they all seemed to be writers and part time Journalists) revealed that he’d actually managed to meet the man. Salinger told him that over the years many people had come to Cornish to look for him and unburden their problems to him, and that he has no idea what to say to them. he’d only written "Catcher In the Rye" to entertain people, it had not been meant to hold great psychological truths. He’d just wanted to be a writer, not a psychotherapist.

But fame confers superhuman status on people. None of us can seem to escape our fascination with the famous, however lame and stupid we may know it is objectively. I have market research interviewed both Morrissey and Kirsty MacColl amongst the thousands of people I have surveyed in London over the 5 years or so I’ve been doing this alleged "job". I can bore for England about my 2 mins eyeball to eyeball with the king of miserability Mr. Stephen Patrick Morrissey and my 40 minutes in the kitchen of the kindly Kirsty.

But as I tell these stories I feel their absolute tragedy. Why is it more noteworthy to have asked Ms. MacColl which shops she’s visited in the last week than Jo Schmo up the street? But still I get a pathetic buzz every time I hear her mellifluous tones on the radio and think "mmm I sat in her kitchen".

Whilst its more understandable that people seek great truths from the extraordinary Jerome David Salinger - the 80’s - 90’s supermodel style fame is much sicker and more puzzling. Someone who wears nice frocks for a living and twirls nonchalantly round the catwalks of media life is turnedinto a personality whose opinions are noteworthy. You are supposed to want to sit down and read Kate Moss’s thoughts on the Kosovo crisis for instance. As if her view will automatically be more valuable than that of Jo Homo (Jo Shmo’s lesser known gay cousin) who lives at the top of your street.

"She can’t live off camera"

Warren Beatty said in disgust of Madonna in the documentary "In Bed with Madonna".

It is true that Ms. Madonna and a few others adore fame right from the outset and will do anything to court it. Many others become swept in and end up perpetuating the myth of fame by helping to build the exclusive worldwide clique that is the fame club.

Nick Hornby the British writer who has achieved incredible success in his 30’s with 2 phenomenally popular novels recently said that since he became well known other "famous" people have been ringing him up and inviting him to go out for a beer with them. As he says "It’s like their saying ‘you’re famous now so its OK to hang out with you.’ UGH"

But many people who become "famous" do not enter the public arena because they wish to spend their life being pursued by clicking light bulbs & loony paparazzi mercenaries on motorbikes.

Often they have a talent and then have the terrible audacity to try and harness this.

Many have to undergo savage and cowardly public bullying sessions from the media merely for trying to put their work across to people. Jo Brand the excellent British comic has been constantly, vindictively attacked by the bearded, beer stained TV writer for the Sun, Garry Bushell. A man who is clearly such a phenomenal masturbator that he must have a special room at home especially for semen.

His brain seems to swirl around his cranium in a pool of sperm judging by his leering prose. He regularly attacks Jo for the capital offence of being overweight (as are the majority of people in this country, including the Olympic Onanism champion10 years on the trot, Garry Bushell) and not looking like one of his page 3 fantasies.

Another person who has never chased celebrity but has suffered as the unwilling signatory of this contract (particularly in recent years) is my favourite film maker Mr. Woody Allen He always refused to work in Hollywood, to attend Oscar ceremonies. I’d argue that this is reflected in the quality of his work over the years. Varying yes, but he’s continued to evolve and make different types of films. Its a long way from the surreal gag lead early Allen to the bitter, but hilarious cerebral poignancy of "Deconstructing Harry"

If our kid had played the Hollywood game he may have ended up a coke fuelled myopic (in every sense) moron turning out film after film in the surreal vein of "Bananas". at 60 years old still stuck as the nervous adolescent man/boy nebbish . Guaranteed bankers maybe, but not allowing for any sort of serious artistic progression.

For the Woodman, the pursuit of artistic excellence, not shallow fame has always been his guiding light.

Youngbloods like Mr Tarantino would do well to learn from this.

Ponder for a moment if you will. Charles Dickens on "the Ian Wright" show talking about football, designer clothes and his favourite pubs in Holborn. Perhaps Mr. Dickens would then become consumed with vanity and the search for fame rather than with producing classic novels.

"Tonight we have Jane Austen in the studio. Tell me Jane is there a MAN in your life at the moment? ... Do you find Pres. Clinton attractive Miss Austen? .... What’s your book called again? Sorry I didn't have time to read it. ... Is it true you slept with your sister? "

"Ricki Lake meets Dostoyevsky. " (The very antithesis of a meeting of minds)

It doesn't bear thinking about so let’s end here.

AND FOR ONE WEEK ONLY KONISBERG IS ....... DR. SEUSS.

IN

"One small step for man, one huge step for Jewkind"

But the main reason I want to be a Jew on the moon

Is because I’m being cleared right out of this tooon.

My landlord has said I’m a DISGRACE

& has sent me packing with a HEDGEHOG in the face.

So instead I’m going to be the first Jew on the moon

Because I’m an uncontrollable LOON.

I’m packing my CARTHORSE right now as I write