Rock Stars Without a Band

I read a lot of different blogs. Some are like mine, just people trying to get through their days, reveal a little about themselves and use this space as some sort of release. Others--Xmastime being one--are hilarious folks who make quick and cutting observations about the arcane and asinine.

And then there are the bloggers who go on about every last sexual act and bodily function as if they are making the most stunning observations ever. It's the school of "if it happened to me, it must be interesting." Sometimes I read these and feel like that episode of South Park where Mr. Slave shoves Paris Hilton up his ass. I just want to say, "honey, you don't even know."

True, I often get a laugh out of these folks and every now and then even a good spank session (yeah, sometimes they post some racy shit). But the most of the time I read it and roll my eyes. Some of these people are lost, others prone to incredibly exaggeration to make the mundane seem dramatic. Most are incredibly narcissistic and many will, in about five to ten years, look back and wonder how they hated themselves so much to do what they did and why they actually put it out for the world to see as if it was something to be glorified. Those that don't, will end up somewhere else--a cold room on a metal table with someone standing over them trying to determine time of death.

This isn't about my sensitivities or being a prude. I've lived that life. I don't write about it a lot here. I'm not that comfortable with that level of revelation and I'm still after four months not quite certain I know what the hell I'm doing with this blog. That said, I don't hide from it either nor am I ashamed of it. But I'm only a few years removed from my old life and I still can't quite make sense of it all or figure out what the hell it was about.

I was the rock star without a band. I was the guy that these gals who blog about their great "professional" lives come to see at 4 a.m. I was the guy shitfaced in an apartment that looked like it'd been sublet to Tony Montana, Keith Richards, and Charles Bukowski.

Yes, there were some funny things that happened, like the time I called one girl, got tired of waiting and called for another and then (sitcom here we come!) they both SHOWED UP. Hilarity ensures. I paid about $1000 for that funny story and truthfully ten years later it isn't that funny anymore. The pro who stole my hairbrush and farecard still amuses me as does the one who wanted to take some body lotion I had buried in the back of my medicine chest (message to customers: DO NOT LEAVE ANY PRO IN A ROOM ALONE WITH ANYTHING VALUABLE IN IT FOR MORE THAN FIVE SECONDS). BTW, I knew that rule going in but just a reminder for you folks out there still working your way up to your first pro experience.

Many of the girls were normal girls making a buck. Many were lost and some were doing what they absolutely had to in order to get through the next five hours. God knows where they get the strength to knock on those doors and not know what the hell is waiting for them.

I am not knocking the pros. They do what they have to do to get by. I'm not knocking me--I did what I did at the time because that was where my head was at. I was a miserable, self-loathing and depressed person who turned to all sorts of things so that I wouldn't have to face being me. I still have trouble facing being me, but it's a lot easier with a clear head.

So what am I rambling about here? I guess I'm concerned about a certain glamorization of all this. Now I may not be the world's best writer, but did anything I describe sound remotely appealing? I could write it in a sexy glam way but I think my fingers would fall off in protest. Even when I was in the midst of my John Entwistle approach to life I didn't exactly feel good about it or want to dress it up as something it wasn't.

Hey, if some folks have convinced themselves that this is the most awesome life in the world, that's their business. Who cares? Don't look at those blogs if that's how you feel. I get it. And I'm a hypocrite. I get that too.

Just consider for a second though the naive dumb ass who might actually be reading you and thinking `hey, that sounds like fun.' It could be your little sister.