The other night, Caleb started haranguing Brandon and me about why we’re not running for president. The implication was that we’re a couple of lazy asses. I started to explain to him very earnestly about the things we do to be good, involved citizens, how we are Americans! He didn’t want to hear it, and I realized why later.
Caleb is under the mistaken impression that I am famous and he is a little bit famous. (He’s young, and I can’t yet break it to him that writers or editors rarely achieve the level of fame of, say, local newscasters.) He makes no bones about how he’d like to be “more famous.” And the President’s kid? That’s auto-fame, baby.
Once, I put him on the cover of the magazine. We were running out of time, the thing was due at the printer, and I thought it’d be funny to have, instead of some perfectly groomed little angel on the cover, this wacked-out looking boy. When I got my box of issues, he took several out. He stared at the cover for a while. Then he decorated his play kitchen set with them, his own face on every surface.
He’s years away from being able to sign his own release form for a reality show, but I'm keeping an eye out.