Oh, how I've tried to be famous. When I was a copy editor, I tried to be a famous copy editor. When I was a part-time stevedore, I tried to be a famous part-time stevedore. And each time, I thought that if only I worked hard enough — if, as a stevedore, I loaded paint cans into an oil tanker's fo'c'sle with an efficiency hitherto unknown on that particular shipping line — perhaps the public would notice.

But the public mainly just wants a disturbing life story, rather than talents that are useful from day to day (for example, great typing skills). It wants you to rise, fall and physically decay. In other words, it wants whatever Anna Nicole Smith is doing.

And to see what that is, watch Anna Nicole's TV show on the E! network. She sounds half asleep, gets ill from eating too much candy, whines like a child, stumbles over things, talks baby talk to her teenage son and edifies us with such witty antics as holding up her false eyelashes and slurring, "They put spiders on my eyeballs!" Beyond that, she hangs around waiting to be paid tens of millions of dollars for the no doubt invaluable service of being married for less than two years to some old, rich guy and not even living with him most of that time.

While rendering a decision as to her inheritance, by the way, U.S. District Court Judge David O. Carter noted, "Her illiteracy is striking. Examples are too numerous to chronicle but include writing `25.00' meaning $2,500 and `4500,00' meaning $4,500 — she testified that she has trouble with zeros."

Yet The Anna Nicole Show scored the second highest Nielsen ratings for a premiere show in cable history. Sure, ratings dropped significantly for the second episode. But they went up among the group that advertisers really care about — adults age 18-34 — the ones who still appreciate the joys of mocking people. That’s prime viewer real estate, and should more than make up for the discomfort of having not just your show but your life mocked by the likes of me.

If that's what fame requires, I'll try it. Mock and deride me. Make fun of my poor eyesight. My shirts are wrinkled. I can't learn foreign languages. That's right, it's time for ... Barry Lank: The True Hollywood Story.

Fade in to a picture of me as a child, somehow having crammed my entire fist into my mouth.

Narrator: "Barry Lank was born next to a cow pasture in southern California in 1960. Right away, everyone knew he was headed for the top."

Cut to an interview with my earliest friend, Jerry Olenyn.

Jerry: "Barry always loved ... what did he end up being famous for again?"

Interviewer: "Being a stevedore."

Jerry: "Right. He was always stevedoring, even as a baby. Taking things on and off ships. Putting away laundry. Operating a forklift ..."

Cut to pictures of the docks.

Narrator: "In no time at all, Barry was making $13 an hour. And then ... before he knew it ... $13.50. He was on a runaway train fueled by fame, groupies and the heady power of deciding where things go in the dry stores locker. Then, just as suddenly the party ended."

Cut to an interview with my old supervisor, Dennis.

Dennis: "Barry? He split for journalism school or something."

Interviewer: "Did he seem distraught?"

Interviewer pushes the microphone a little too close into Dennis' face, which is never smart. Dennis pauses.

Dennis: "You know, you're going to look pretty funny waddling out of here with that microphone sticking out of your ..."

Cut to a scary montage of various computer terminals.

Narrator: "From there, it was a downward spiral of journalism jobs up and down the East Coast. Barry's life was coming apart."

Cut to an interview with Roxanna, a woman I dated for six months in 1999.

Roxanna: "That's when Barry really started drinking — sometimes five, six, seven beers a month."

Cut to my home.

Narrator: "But then he got arrested or had therapy or something, and now he's cured. He's back to putting away paint cans and groceries — but this time, just in his own house."

Me: "Now that I'm middle-aged and my face is kind of crabbed, I'll bet the public will be pretty desperate to see me again. I only hope it will accept me as I am — or if not, then, you know, whatever way it wants."