In case you didn’t know, I am Anthony Kiedis’ long lost son.
I realized this while standing a mere 25 feet from Kiedis – or Dad – at Voodoo Fest a few days ago. While I could go into a long and detailed sermon on the countless similarities between the two of us, I will say simply that there is a voice from above telling me this.
If my long lost, incredibly hip, Red Hot Chili Peppers front man father is an international superstar, than by association alone I am also an international superstar.
As a regular civilian I admit that Voodoo was perfect, but as a newfound international superstar, I have to say, I was incredibly disappointed and offended.
First, there was no space to park my limousine. Not that I have a limousine, but it’s just assumed that celebrities of my caliber would have a limousine and a place to park it.
To my disgrace, I was forced to park my brother’s Pontiac Grand Am along the bayous, canals, ditches, puddles or whatever those bodies of water were near City Park. After parking, I waited patiently for a bodyguard to arrive and escort me to the festival. I waited 20 minutes before pulling together all my dignity and walking myself in.
To enter, I had to endure what seemed like a dozen lines before being admitted. It was like I was Virgil going through the different layers of Hell in “The Inferno.” (Not that I’ve ever read “The Inferno,” but you get my point.)
I had to flash my ticket, empty my pockets and show my unopened water bottle. I’m surprised that I wasn’t asked to do back flips through a hoop of fire while singing “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Old Oak Tree.” Not to sound conceited, but if those security guards had bothered to learn who I was, they would’ve been bowing at my feet, not performing a near cavity search.
Weather is something that international superstars such as myself don’t typically bother with. We’re in Paris one day and Tokyo the next, with no time to be concerned with snow flurries, humidity and all of that meteorological jargon.
If the sponsors of Voodoo had had any respect, they would have provided me with an elevated, weather resistant chair. Instead, I was forced to sit on my $98 jacket so that my butt didn’t get wet. They also would’ve loaned me one of Duran Duran’s personal assistants to trail behind me carrying a portable space heater so that I wasn’t forced to warm myself up over an over-priced cup of crawfish etoufee. Some people simply have no respect for others.
In hindsight, I should have also demanded my own private port-a-potty. I should not be forced to step in others’ feces, vomit and spilled alcohol so that I may relieve myself. A restroom should be someplace that is inviting, with light chamber music, potpourri and copies of “Vanity Fair.”
A typical celebrity doesn’t get mauled, molested, or assaulted while out in public. Why should I be treated differently? While attempting to enjoy music down in the pit with those who couldn’t get into the VIP seats, I was subjected to things that any other celebrity would cringe at.
Merely 20 feet from the stage, I stood among the crush of bodies, unable to move. After realizing just how miserable the situation must have been for me, some vermin decided to crowd surf and form a mosh pit. I was kicked in the face and probably have a concussion that the finest physician in Beverly Hills will have to look over. But did I make a fuss? No. I took it like a true celebrity – with class. I said nothing although I knew that I didn’t deserve to be down in the pit with all of the commoners and the crack heads.Well ok, maybe the crack heads.
While many may view my Voodoo weekend as just another running wild, looking pretty event, it is so much more than that. I learned that unlike Nicole Richie, I cannot gain the celebrity status I deserve just by being the offspring of an incredibly influential funk rocker.
If I desire to be on “Entertainment Tonight,” and not just as one in the crowd of many making sex kitten faces as the camera pans by, I must start my own band. Despite having no musical experience and a voice that sounds like a geriatric bull frog, I’m convinced that my band, appropriately named: Justin Templet and the Running Wild Looking Pretties will establish ourselves in Hollywood and the music industry.
And when you see me purring at you with a sex kitten expression on the cover of Rolling Stone, know that I’m an international superstar and that I’m probably on a private jet to visit my father in Los Angeles, nowhere near the Voodoo Music Experience.
Justin Templet can be reached at [email protected].
