Rodney Dangerfield used to say, “That crowd was so tough, the hat check girl’s name was Dominic.”

Rodney’s real name was Jacob. Tell someone that, next time you want to make an impression.

I knew Rodney’s regular limo driver. He told me Rodney Dangerfield did not become famous until he was past 50. he took the “I don’t get no respect” act from a dying vaudevillian. Then he became a star.

SUMMARY: If Don McLean is considered a one-hit wonder and Rodney Dangerfield couldn’t make a living for 30+ years in show biz, that means Queen was right when they sang about show biz success, “It’s been no bed of roses, no pleasure cruise.”

I always thought Queen was singing about show-biz success in “We are the Champions.” Maybe it was a soccer song. Don’t ask me. I don’t have any blazing success stories to impart. VH1 hasn’t scripted a true Hollywood story about me, so far.

Whether you’ve created a big success or worked on a project that barely made it out of the drawer, everyone should feel a sense of accomplishment when they finish a screenplay, novel, children’s book, etc. (I refuse to use the word “whatever”). By everyone, I mean every artist. Take Van Gogh, for example.

Gizmo was admiring the copy of a Van Gogh painting at the 3Monkeys bar.

“This was the only one he actually sold in his lifetime,” Gizmo revealed. “That’s why I got it.”

I was touched, as well. Here’s an artist, Vincent Van Gogh, a capable guy, and he gets to spend his life thinking he’s got limited talent, or worse.

“That wasn’t the root of Van Gogh’s problem,” I told Gizmo as he refilled my fresh O.J.

Gizmo nodded.

The “other” Vincent.”

Now he was touched.

Why? Vincent Van Gogh was not the first son born to his parents. No, he wasn’t even the first son named Vincent  born to his parents.

Cue the overbearing theme song from “The Outer Limits.”

My research (probably a documentary on Discovery HD channel) indicates that Vincent’s older brother, also called Vincent (that gives me the creeps every time I think about it) was a perfect child who had died by the age of five or six. Rather than grieve normally for their lost boy, the Van Gogh’s made matters much worse by naming their next son after the lost son. This new Vincent could not live up to Vince The First’s accomplishments, brains, beauty, whatever, so Vince the Deuce got shunned, big time.

Gizmo was reading my mind.

“You think you’ve been shunned, like Van Gogh?” he asked.

When I paused, he screamed, and the whole bar heard him, “Are you comparing yourself to Van Gogh?”

“No. Well.”

“Well?”

“Not really. Except for the obvious similarity.”

Gizmo scratched his head.

“But you have absolutely no art talent.”

“I mean, by ‘similarity,’ the problem he had --”

“Van Gogh cut off his ear because a hooker wouldn’t love him back – that can’t be the similarity to which you refer,” Gizmo said calmly.

“No,” I replied. “I mean his problem selling his work.”

“That you can relate to,” he said with a sadistic chuckle.

Whatever.

See, that’s the insidious part of whatever. That’s the part they don’t tell you about when you first hear and start using the word “whatever.” I just used the word twice in this blog and I had no intention or reason to use it. The word just appears, like a weed. Oh my … I just noticed the title above!

The point is: every struggling artist feels the same way Van Gogh felt his entire life.

I like the Van Gogh comparison. It gives hope to everyone who has ever created a body of work. They could love you in 150 years, even if they ignore you now.

-- Don Rutberg