I’m having my yearly session of intense sickness, and it’s not fun. I have a headache. My eyes feel like they’ve been left under heat lamps. I have these weird ulcers in my mouth (stress ulcers, not, like, Feline AIDS ulcers.) Also, I have a bad haircut. It’s not related to the whole illness thing, but I’m still I’m still upset about it. It looks like there’s a quarter of a mountain lion pelt glued to my head. My head that is bald. Under the quarter-mountain lion pelt.
So the band I’m in had our last rehearsal before our first gig next week. We’re a cover band. I might not have mentioned it because we’re so indie (not true) that even I forget the band exists sometimes (not true). Why just last week AC/DC asked- nay, begged! Begged us to let them open for us on Friday the 21st of November at Hardiman’s Hotel, Kensington (Not, not true. Not “Not not true” but the one that isn’t a double negative.) See what I did there? In the music biz, we call that a plug. Not dissimmilar to what my head looks like it has.
Where was I? Stardom, right. Massive super-stardom. We’re so popular that I’ve started setting trends. I go to the shops to buy soap (not entirely true) and there’s teenage girls chasing me for a change! It’s like that episode of the partridge family where the oldest one gets chased down the road by all those girls but escapes to the safety and comfort of his family bus (fiction is wonderful).
Now, all over town, girls are throwing themselves at musicians like it’s not even fair! And I started that! I didn’t start that. That existed before. Every night at the pub pretty girls walk in before the bands start looking confused and scared.
“He hasn’t started yet. He still needs to do a sound check.”
“Oh. How did you-“
“I just know.”
So I finished rehearsal (we totally rocked Blue Suede Shoes). (No, really, we did). And Chris, our singer/harmonica player dropped me off before going home to his daughter, who is also ill. What a nice guy. He deserves a rock star name, like Slash and Axl have. Maybe Snakebite Pinatera! Maybe C-Bomb Supernova! Maybe Norse-God Flaghenbehrger!
I lugged my cumbersome amp inside, held the door open with my foot while bent back and picked up my guitar. When it rains I have to hold the amp above ground and swivel my torso to reach my keys. Incidentally, the doctor said my back pain was due to poor posture and improper lifting techniques. He also said that in a man’s mid-20’s, all the foolish stuff he’s done, the rocks he’s jumped from, the lifting from the waist (it shows off my his svelte legs), the jagerbombs and maybe-trannies (really not really). All of that comes back to visit with dirty laundry and a box of warm white wine.
I got inside and something wasn’t right. It wasn’t a burglary. Most of the time my place looks like I have opponents who work for the Committee to Reelect the President. I turned the lights on and the halogen bulbs hurt my eyes (at this point the light emmitted from a particularly good gnat going to gnat heaven would hurt my eyes).
It was clean. Like, mostly! And the big stock pot was out, and there was a note next to it. Jess had cooked me
chicken soup
Lots and lots of chicken soup!
I’m the luckiest guy alive!