No! A blog is ridiculous. I’m a man of the world. I’m not watching the guitar player, solo artist, banging on 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. Right now, I’m reading from my memoir. It’s an audiobook. I can hear my voice changing in the headphones. It’s lovely to listen to. Seductive. I hope people don’t think I’m insincere. I’m talking to myself, and I sound like my mother a little more, but it’s the norm. A son of an immigrant coal miner, I’m past my prime, forced into a career change. I had to humble myself, go back, and tune in.
I was born on the streets, living in the frigid basement of Sir Edwin Elgar’s broken-down house. 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. My voice was smooth and melodic. I sounded like a soccer player. I was the bloke across town with the magic beat. A way to bring you back to life. 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. I feel an arthritic pain.
Perfect murder? I didn’t kill Tuesday. It’s not in my diary. I ordered a hit on Tuesday, but I was speaking literally. I wanted to hear one of Elton John’s hits on 109.9 because there was no way I wanted to imitate one of Mario Puzo’s characters.