Being famous for fame's sake wasn't the goal when I co-founded

Host: The afternoon sun spilled across the boardwalk, turning the worn wooden planks into streaks of gold. A faint breeze carried the smell of salt and fried food, the sound of waves blending with distant guitar riffs from a busker down the pier. It was one of those days that felt like the world had paused — where time hummed instead of running.

At a small table outside a weathered seaside café, Jack sat, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses hiding eyes that hadn’t seen sleep. A notebook lay open before him — half-scribbled thoughts, coffee rings, cigarette burns. Jeeny arrived barefoot, sandals in hand, her long black hair tousled by the wind. She smiled as she dropped into the chair across from him.

Jeeny: “You look like a man trying to write the meaning of life — or at least, the chorus of it.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “I was just thinking about Belinda Carlisle. Heard her quote on the radio earlier — ‘Being famous for fame’s sake wasn’t the goal when I co-founded the Go-Go’s. I just wanted to sing and have a laugh.’”

Host: The waves crashed nearby, the sound sharp and soft all at once. Jack took a sip of his cold coffee, watching a group of teenagers take selfies by the railing — faces tilted just right, laughter practiced.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? People used to make art because they had something to say. Now they do it so the world will look back at them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not so different. Everyone still wants to be seen, Jack. Back then it was through songs; now it’s through screens.”

Jack: “Yeah, but Carlisle didn’t start a band to trend. She wanted to sing — to live it. There’s a difference between doing something for joy and doing it to be remembered.”

Host: A seagull landed nearby, pecking at a fallen fry. The sky was bright, the kind of blue that feels earned after too much rain.

Jeeny: “Maybe she was lucky,” Jeeny said softly. “She came from a time when authenticity didn’t need an audience.”

Jack: (snorting) “Authenticity’s a performance now. You post your vulnerability, hashtag it, and call it truth. Everyone’s famous for something — even if it’s nothing.”

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “I’m realistic.”

Jeeny: “No, you’re bruised. There’s a difference.”

Host: Her voice cut through the lazy afternoon — not loud, but precise. Jack leaned back, letting the words settle. The music from the busker drifted closer, a cover of ‘Our Lips Are Sealed.’ Jeeny smiled faintly when she recognized it.

Jeeny: “You know, I read once that when the Go-Go’s started, they were laughed at. An all-female rock band? The industry didn’t take them seriously. But they didn’t care. They played messy, loud, joyful. They weren’t chasing approval — they were chasing freedom.”

Jack: “And that’s why it worked. They didn’t start by asking how to get famous; they started by asking how to feel alive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The sunlight glinted off the rim of Jeeny’s glass. She took a sip, her expression thoughtful.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when you first started writing?”

Jack: (hesitant) “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “Why did you do it?”

Jack: “Because it was the only way to breathe. Words made the chaos make sense.”

Jeeny: “And when did it stop feeling like that?”

Host: He didn’t answer right away. A couple walked by, holding hands, laughing at something only they could hear. Jack watched them — that effortless joy, that absence of awareness.

Jack: “When people started paying me for it. When every word became a transaction. The moment your work buys you comfort, it also buys your silence.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not silence — maybe fear. Fear of losing what you’ve earned. Fame’s tricky like that. It gives you a megaphone, but it steals your voice.”

Jack: “So what, then? We should all go back to playing in basements and writing in notebooks that no one reads?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Maybe. Or maybe we should just remember why we started. Fame’s not the enemy, Jack. Forgetting your joy is.”

Host: The wind picked up, scattering napkins across the table. Jack caught one, flattened it with his palm. His expression softened — something distant, nostalgic.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I wanted to be a journalist. Thought I’d travel the world, write truth, maybe change something. But somewhere along the way, I started chasing headlines instead of meaning. I became... efficient.”

Jeeny: “You became visible.”

Jack: “And invisible to myself.”

Host: Her eyes met his — quiet, empathetic, but unflinching.

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s still cringing from the applause.”

Jack: (laughs softly) “Yeah. Feels like it belongs to someone else.”

Jeeny: “That’s because applause was never meant to define you. It was meant to accompany you — like background music, not the melody.”

Host: The sun sank lower, stretching shadows across the pier. The busker changed songs — something slower, nostalgic.

Jeeny: “When Belinda said she just wanted to sing and have a laugh, I think she meant that joy is the point — not legacy. Fame can’t survive without constant feeding. Joy doesn’t need an audience.”

Jack: “Tell that to everyone scrolling for meaning.”

Jeeny: “They already know. They just forgot how to feel without witnesses.”

Host: The tide whispered against the pier, rising quietly. Jack closed his notebook. The scribbles inside were chaotic — ideas half-born, thoughts half-buried. He looked up, the faintest smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been writing for the wrong reasons.”

Jeeny: “Then write for laughter. Write for music. Write because the words deserve to exist, not because you do.”

Jack: “And if no one reads them?”

Jeeny: “Then they’ll still have lived. Isn’t that enough?”

Host: A moment passed — calm, fragile, complete. The sound of the waves grew louder, the wind cooler, carrying away the noise of the world.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s just not easy.”

Host: They sat in silence, watching the sun dip into the horizon — gold melting into pink, into the infinite grey of evening. The light softened, like a curtain closing after a long act.

Jack: “You know, maybe Belinda had it right. Maybe art was never supposed to be a monument. Just a moment.”

Jeeny: “A song sung for the sake of singing.”

Jack: “And a laugh — because life’s too short to make everything a statement.”

Host: She smiled, and for the first time that day, so did he. The camera panned outward — the pier stretching toward the sea, gulls circling, laughter spilling from the café, the music fading with the wind.

Two figures remained at the small table — a man rediscovering joy, a woman reminding him how.

The waves rolled in, endless, unconcerned with fame or failure. And somewhere in the sound, faint but clear, it almost seemed like laughter — the kind that comes from remembering who you were before the world began to watch.