Fear & Loathing on the concert tour-------->
Can an aging wanna-be
rock star find happiness and success in the music business, in spite
of an expanded waist line, a bald spot and corns?
This little expose is by no means
complete, but will include all or some of the following:
1.
A journal of the x-perience
2.
the highs, the lows, the shooters, the blows
3.
the rants and the raves, the saints and the knaves
It was time.
Twenty years since high school and my reunion looming, I
confronted this gnawing dissatisfaction with my life.
Why was I depressed? I
wasn’t playing any music. I
had already confronted the personal demons – had the four-month
strait run of cocaine everyday and the subsequent 12 step recovery –
had no wife or kids to speak of, the business was moving forward, and
why not – take this thing to the fucking limit.
Ah, Seattle,
ah-internet, ah-domain-name owner.
C stands for Casey and Christina,
control freak
E stands for Ellen, equivocator
my stupid experiments
with post-modern egalitarianism –
I recently started a
rock-n-roll band, and in the process, received a stark reminder as to
why some are more equal than others and why communism never, ever
works –
I must have been high,
standard fare for modern music, a long tale of drug and alcohol abuse
associated with it. But,
I wasn’t it – I was bright-eyed and rosy cheeked any child can
grow up to be president
I thought, naively as it
turned it out – that sane professional adults, having spent years
honing their craft, would also bring to the party some modicum of
emotional stability as well. I
have never been more wrong. There
were those who refused to be led, either by themselves or others –
passive-aggressiveness reared it’s ugly head.
Late-night karaoke sessions and scooter rides to Bellevue in
the dead of night.
Losing personnel
