How To Collaborate With Elvis Costello

No! A blog is ridiculous. I’m a man of the world. I’m not watching the guitar player, solo artist, banging on the drums, or any of that nonsense. It is not about Elvis. It’s about me.

Sometimes, I dream of owning pictures of Princess Diana when she was alive in her thirties in her underwear. Blue Velvet audio comes to mind. It’s not a comedy. I’m hearing my old memoir, like an audiobook. I can hear my voice changing in the headphones. But it’s lovely to listen to. Seductive. I hope people don’t think I’m insincere. I’m talking to myself, sounding a tad like my mother, but it’s the norm. The son of an immigrant coal miner, I’m past my prime, forced into a career change. I had to humble myself again, go back and tune in.

I was born on the streets, then living alone in the frigid basement of Sir Edwin Elgar’s broken-down house. As a child I would eat breakfast while watching TV. About half way into my bowl of Cocoa Puffs, I looked down to find dead ants floating in the milk — a lot of dead ants. But when hanging out, it was different. People didn’t think in terms of colours. They put their fingers on strings, and picked as a novice. I drew them in drumming in the shop. It got warmer; and I got older, a lot older, but my drumming still sucked. Still, they listened. Colours didn’t matter, but eleven was all too important. It was my favourite number. I let them know. They cheered, but not for me. Portugal won another match and I translated. My internet slang got better. My voice was smooth and melodic. I sounded like a soccer player. Still, the headphones boomed my voice. I was the bloke from across town with the magic beat, bringing you back to love.

For some strange reason, I always wanted to be a writer and not a performer; but writing the wrong way for most of my life, now it’s led to this. There’s a slight arthritic pain and the music is over. There’s a sharp pain in my neck. I want to stab someone. I’m searching around for a new pillow. All the pillow reviews have the same warnings. All the same. I can’t find anything good online.

The Prime Radio Show was ambitious, chaotic, and completely unready for prime time — or for Amazon’s polished, algorithm-driven universe. It had heart, grit, and a kind of unfiltered charm, but none of the structure or sheen that big platforms demand. Yet that rawness was its soul: a beautifully flawed experiment that worked best in the shadows, where Prime was very dark.

Nobody cared if it broke the rules.

Perfect murder? I didn’t kill Tuesday. It’s not in my motorcycle diary. Your Soviet bikes and Cookie Monster helmets also aren’t in my diary. I ordered a hit on Tuesday, but I wasn’t speaking Russian. I was speaking literally. I wanted to hear one of Elton John’s hits on 109.9 on Tuesday because there was no way I wanted to imitate one of Mario Puzo’s characters. But if there was a court case, the judge would think I was framed. A ginormous picture of me in the most expensive frame known to mankind hanging on a wall of the real killer’s house.

Nothing to laugh about.

Reverend Rich Cornstarch arrived at St. Ray’s Church in Brewington before sunrise, his breath rising in white puffs as he unlocked the side door. A Jim Morrison poster was on the door. The old building groaned awake, as if recognizing him, and he moved through the hall with a quiet confidence born from years of doing what needed to be done. Every Tuesday morning, the church basement transformed into a food pantry with tables stacked full of canned goods, bread, and whatever the town’s generous few managed to donate.

By noon, a line of Brewington’s struggling families stretched out the door. Rich greeted each person by name, passing out bags of food with the same gentleness he used during Sunday blessings. A single mother cried from exhaustion; Rich sat with her until she steadied. Rich’s charity work was not done. Rich greeted the homeless and welcomed stray dogs. He liked to take care of animals in his spare time. When the day ended and the tables were bare, Reverend Cornstarch swept the floors himself, humming an old hymn under the flickering basement lights. He didn’t do it for praise; he did it because Brewington needed it. They also needed a shitload of beer.

Lionheart didn’t need me as a king. I didn’t expect to be ostracized so quickly, but the moment those brilliant but clumsy lesbian jokes left my mouth, the studio went cold. It wasn’t the kind of silence that invites reflection — it was the kind that seals Jim’s door. People I’d known for years suddenly kept their distance, not just out of queer malice, but from being let down, the heavy kind that stings more than anger. I was angry, too. I wanted support from Elvis again, but then he vanished from my life for good. I’m really the Dad Hatter: not Mad, just terribly disappointed.