On being a rockstar

"Smell that air... isn't it great to be young and insane?"

Last week, I put my bass in my indestructible Han Solo-in-carbonite case and got on a plane to Portland. The band was to play two shows in support of Thievery Corporation. It was the largest venue I've ever played, and both shows were sold out.

I've realized an odd contradiction about myself recently: I'm a musician and a performer, that is what defines me, but I HATE talking about it. I cringe when someone asks me what kind of music I like. Tell me how much you love the bass, and I'll want to curl up in a fetal position and suck my thumb. Yes, I can get in esoteric, philosophical discussions with other musicians, but for the most part, I would rather talk about unicorns or foot fungus than my favorite bands or what style of music I play.

After one of the shows last weekend, T and I found ourselves in the dressing room, trying, with limited success, to have a quiet moment to decompress. People were pulling us left and right, have a drink, meet this person, etcetera. From the audience perspective, performers are up on stage, having a great time and getting everyone else to join in. That gives the impression that we're all energizer bunnies who do nothing more than party non-stop. ...OK, fine, that image isn't totally unwarranted, but imagine this: You run into a good friend on the street, who introduces you to a new beau. In a brief amount of time, you put effort into shaking hands, making eye contact, and trying to generally make a good impression. Not too taxing, but say that couple gets married, you go to the wedding, and have to do that 50 or a hundred times. If you've done that before, you know how draining it can be by the end of the day. Now try doing it 1500 times in 45 minutes and you'll have an idea of what it's like to be a stage performer. It's pouring your entire being out to a group of strangers, connecting with each one of them and taking them on trip through your soul.

Taking a minute to regroup after that isn't asking too much, is it?

How can we be friends if we can't be lovers?

Sorry to punish the earholes of your mind with a Michael Bolton reference, but it was the first thing that came to mind, and lately, if I think too much about what I'm going to post, I start thinking about something else.

As all five of my faithful readers know,  I don't have the settle-down genome in my DNA. Having a career and a family is not something I have thought too much about. On the other hand, as I get further on with my life, I see people that I don't want to become...

-The 40 year-old dating a college student

-Dennis Hopper in 'River's Edge'

-One those people wearing clothes that are only hip on people half their age (or wears newer versions of the clothes that were hip when he was half his age)

-That guy at the bar whom everyone knows, but secretly wonders what he's still doing at the bar at his age when it's last call on a Monday night?

-Celibate

-Someone who shocks his entire social network by saying, "have you met my new girlfriend?"

Whatever

I'm a follower of M's blog, but she hasn't posted in what seems like forever. I was going to mention this to her, but then I noticed that my last post was the same day as her last post. It isn't as if nothing has happened in the last 39 days, or my computer was broken, or I was in a hut in Borneo with no internet access. I just haven't been able to pull myself away from Color Junction on my iGoogle Homepage. Everybody (yes, I have asked the entire planet's population- thaaat's why I haven't posted) thinks I should get a crackberry or an iClone, but I know me- I'll miss my bus stop because of that ball rolling game, or I'll start sneaking off to the bathroom at dinner parties to post to Facebook.

The real reason I don't get one of those things is that they are too damned big and ugly. I want one that works like a Theremin. Sleek, compact, and with a soundtrack to 1950's horror films. No, there wouldn't be any email, gps mapping, or that ball rolling game, but that's what holograms are for.