My New Album

I'm not musical, and I'm the first person to admit that. I think I have rhythm and all that, but I never took the time to learn an instrument. My mother played the clarinet for years, and my father is pretty much a natural at anything he picks up. As long as it makes a sound, he can figure out how to play it inside of 10 minutes. Most notably, he plays guitar really really well. But probably the most shining display of his musical talent, to me, was when we had a piano in the house. During high school I got this wild hair and decided I needed to learn how to play the piano. So my mom rented a piano and signed me up for lessons with this horrible old woman down the street. As I struggled to pull myself away from the instant gratification of TV and practice, my dad would sit at the piano and compose actual songs, with chords and notes and everything IN HIS HEAD. Needless to say, it was endlessly demoralizing--which isn't to say it wasn't impressive.

That said, if I ever did put out an album of banjo music or whatever, I would call it "Live-blogging My Loneliness," and I would put this picture on the cover:

Then I'd just wait for the Gawker stories to roll out. I'd reach fameball status, date one of those self-publicizing talking heads who's marginally famous for divulging personal aspects of her life publicly. I'd decide to quit the banjo and take up the harpsichord, then I'd give up the harpsichord to start a new band with a chubby Puerto Rican guy I met at the Brooklyn Brewery, then I'd give up music altogether and start writing poety. I'd get really into fashion but ignore my personal hygiene so essentially I'd look like a homeless person that Hugo Boss felt sorry for. I'd get married, to the talking head, and we'd have a child. Then we'd divorce and she'd get custody because I would have a nasty drinking problem that makes me difficult to be around but I would be convinced makes me more fun at parties. After I shave my head, I'd hire a life couch who winds up being a fraud and taking the remainder of my savings. In a moment of desperation I'd re-visit the banjo and after a week of delirium tremors that make it hard to play right, I'd start writing new songs. I'd get back into the studio and do tracks with guest stars like Tony Bennett, Lucinda Williams, and Ludicrous. At the age of 30 I'll look 45, but I'll do a string of self-important interviews about how I found Jesus because Jesus is more marketable than spontaneous self-improvement. Ultimately, "Live-blogging My Lonliness" would make it to China, where the citizens would listen to its message, realize their value as an angry mob, and would initiate a mass-exodus out of the country into Japan, France, Hawaii, and Alaska (respectively). My child will call a lawyer named "Chet" daddy. Chet will be flamboyantly gay but will convince everyone that he's straight by marrying my ex-wife and taking an interest in muscle cars. My child will attend a private school, the same one Chet went to as a boy. I'll send birthday cards with large checks that have outrageous messages written in the memo line. Chet, for all his fraudulent malingering, will be a better father-figure for the boy, and I will never appeal for custody. Incidentally, David Cassidy will sue me for fraud, and I will appeal when he wins and I have to award him $412,000 dollars for not upholding my contractual agreement to appear in his Las Vegas spectacular at the Bellagio. My last day on earth will be spent drinking beer on my next door neighbor's shed. I'll get a sunburn and I'll have little sunglass lines around my eyes. I will go to my ex-wife's condo and ask if the boy is around. I'll give him my banjo and tell him to play it when he feels like live-blogging. He'll ask me what live-blogging is and I'll tell him it was a disease from the early 2000's where self-important assholes would watch "Top Chef" and feel personally invested to the point where their opinion matters to people other than themselves. I will summarize by saying it was a lot like syphilis. When I get home I'll rub aloe all over my body and sit in my favorite rocking chair. With my last breath I'll say "chrysanthemum," because that was the name of my childhood sled, and I'll disappear because none of this ever happened.