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’s 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. A way to bring you back to love. 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.
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 the wall of the real killer’s house. Nothing to laugh about.
I’m really the Dad Hatter: not Mad, just terribly disappointed.
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