The above represents the bulk of what I accomplished this weekend. Oh sure, I had grand plans for a very productive Saturday. When the boys all left the house, I was going to tear through the place with garbage bags as my side arms and start tossing out the carcasses and trash that have accumulated around here over this long, hard winter.
That was the plan in my head, anyway.
But in my heart?
In my heart I heard the roar of the crowd. I could picture the scene. I put my ear to the wall, then like a distant scream, I heard one guitar, just blew me away...
So, around 1:15 p.m., approximately 30 minutes late (like any rock star worth their contract rider in green M&M's and weed), I strapped on my blazing red plastic guitar, hit the Bud Light Stage in my living room, and under the guise of one Judy Nails, kicked ass, and proceeded to do so until, oh, let's say 8 p.m.
What's that you say? Nearly seven hours of solid rock goodness!? You get your monies worth when you buy a ticket to one of my shows, ladies and gentlemen! You came here to rock, didn't you? I can't hear you! I said, "YOU CAME HERE TO ROCK, DIDN'T YOU?"
Then rock you shall do!
Except for the part when, in a fit of "I'm a golden god!", I believed I could execute a pristine rendition of Heart's Crazy On You (I heart you, old school Heart) in 'expert' mode and kept having to restart it within the first two minutes of the song. Around the 12th time, I thought I heard a "boo" off stage left, so I flipped off the culprit, tried one more time (curses, Nancy Wilson!), then backtracked for another go at the Foo Fighter's Monkey Wrench (I really heart you, Dave Grohl).
Around hour five, I hit pause and took a little nap, but only because my roadie (the one who keeps me juiced via the Red Bull and our simmering sexual tension, and who scours the crowd for cute boys to come backstage and fawn over me) insisted I looked tired. He was all, "Sometimes you sleep. Sometimes it's not for days. The people you meet, they always go their separate ways," and really, he speaks the truth.
However, it's hard to sleep when you've got the rock coursing through your veins. Thirty minutes later, I was at it again. Three more hours of this rock and roller coaster we call life and it was encore time, baby! In true rock cliche fashion, that encore would've been Freebird, but I've not gotten that far yet (probably because I like to play "Surrender" a lot and that slows me down a bit, ok?).
I realize the day was excessive (excessively cool!), and my house is still littered with the bones of those who came here to die over the winter, but this will no doubt be the closest I come to rock super stardom (if by "super stardom" you believe "medium" is the level to play, and you continually blame it on sensitive fingers), and there will always be some kid out there, with no responsibilities or cares, who's all, "eh, here's your rock hands, mofo!" anyway. So next weekend? Next weekend I clean the house, and dream about the days when I used to be a legend in my own living room.
Unless it's time to hit the reunion circuit! Then I'm all in, baby, but only for the right price and a percentage of ticket sales. I have lots of pretend alimony to pay, and a crazy lust for Rock Band.
Labels: they say the road ain't no place to start a family