A Cup of Heartbreak in B-flat

Someday, as your musician boyfriend will no doubt promise you, he is going to be rich and famous and he will definitely, absolutely, without a doubt, pay you back for all the stuff you’ve had to buy for his sorry ass.

Okay, that was a little harsh, not to mention, inaccurate.  Let me re-phrase that.

Add “by dumping you to bang indie actresses” after “pay you back”, and then replace “sorry ass” with “career that will eventually end with a poorly-received experimental electronica album”.  Hang on – I have included the mark-up below:

Someday, as your musician boyfriend will no doubt promise you, he is going to be rich and famous and he will definitely, absolutely, without a doubt, pay you back by dumping you to bang indie actresses for all the stuff you’ve had to buy for his sorry ass career that will eventually end with a poorly-received experimental electronica album.

One of the most hilarious, yet oddly enduring, grifts with regard to dating musicians is that if you love and financially support your unemployed musician boyfriend, after he “makes it big” and his album sells its first few million copies and he wins a couple of Grammy awards, the two of you will get married and move into one of those mansions in the fancy outskirts of Nashville where guys like Jack White will pop by unannounced to ask if they can borrow a cup of heartbreak in B-flat.

(I assume all of the successful musicians who move to those neighborhoods have a dedicated cellar in their mansions where they store heartbreak in various musical keys, because it’s mandated by Nashville’s city charter just above “2. Get down, turn around, go to town, the Boot Scootin’ Boogie”.  Also, I chose B-flat because it was the key Whoopi Goldberg had to figure out in Jumpin’ Jack Flash after listening to the song on repeat over and over again so she could get on the secure computer line with that British spy who was trapped somewhere in Eastern Europe.  When’s somebody remaking that movie?)

Regardless, it’s certainly better than having a dedicated cigar cellar in your mansion, which automatically means you are the most insufferable person on the planet, not to mention the stinkiest.  For the record, I have never seen someone smoking a cigar and thought, “I bet that’s a cool person.”  The only people who think you look cool with a cigar are other guys who are standing nearby also smoking cigars, and you think they look cool, too, so all you’ve really done is created one of those human centipede scenarios.  Now I’m just picturing three cigars attached to each other ass-to-mouth.  Thanks.

You’ll move into this Nashville mansion that’s got one of those pools shaped like a music note, adopt a bunch of rescue dogs and start a foundation in your spare time between your personal yoga training appointments and lunches with Drea de Matteo and Shooter Jennings, who tell you that while they are no longer together as a couple, they remain on good terms for the sake of the kids.  You’ll eventually become tennis buddies with them and “totally razz” Shooter when he comes out of the clubhouse wearing white tennis shorts with a wallet chain and a tall boy of local craft beer bulging out of his pocket.

Drea will throw her arms up and say, “I know!  You can’t take this guy anywhere!” and then you’ll all laugh about it later on when you go check out that secret after-hours show at The Bluebird Cafe where Miranda Lambert is trying out new material for her next album.  You’ll tell regular people you forget “all the time” that Drea was on The Sopranos, but you know damn well it’s literally all you ever think about anytime you see her, and you have to stop yourself from calling her “Adriana” every time you talk to her.  Anytime you think about that scene where Steve Van Zandt tells her to get in the car, and you know she definitely won’t be coming back, it makes you start to tear up, because you’re NOT MADE OF STEEL, FOR GOD’S SAKE.

The bittersweet memories of the beginning years, the tough years, the years when you had to work two jobs and sell your blood plasma to pay all the bills and get your unemployed musician boyfriend the guitar he wanted for his birthday, the “Livin’ On a Prayer” years, will be but fading images in the rearview mirrors of your fleet of fully loaded luxury automobiles.

His newest number one song that has rocketed to the top of the charts will be about you and how your never-ending love and devotion were sometimes the only things that got him through another tour of the Pacific Northwest in a broken down, leaky 1989 Chevy Astro van that his drummer had to push-start half the time.  This earned his drummer the nickname “The Pusher”, even though he likes to make up a story that he actually got the nickname from being an “enforcer” for the IRA back when he still believed in “The Cause”.  The Pusher’s rosary beads, that used to dangle so proudly from the rearview mirror, now reside in the glove box next to his St. Christopher keychain, because even when Catholics decide they aren’t Catholics anymore, they still believe that jewelry and keychains will keep other cars from crashing into them on the highway.

Your successful musician husband will surprise you on your second wedding anniversary with a tattoo across his back that says “Angel of Montgomery”, and it’ll be a portrait of you done by Kat Von D, depicting you with angel wings and your bought-and-paid-for, brand new bitchin’ rack of boobies.  Also, you are from Montgomery, Alabama or that tattoo doesn’t make any sense.

Your eventual children, Gunnar and Patton (twins!), will go to one of those preschools where people like Zac Brown send their children, and they will weave you a wine glass-cozy for Mother’s Day out of sustainably-harvested felted wool that says “Mommy Juice” on the side, and you’ll laugh one of those hearty, belly-type laughs even though you have rock-fucking-hard abs from all the Pilates you did with Nicole Kidman’s trainer that morning, as you sit on the porch with a glass of Rose’ that was made at your friend Jon Bon Jovi’s new vineyard.

Overlooking the gorgeous, lush rolling Tennessee hills of your rustic, yet palatial estate, you’ll remember all the times, all those years ago, that you overdrafted your bank account to make your unemployed musician boyfriend’s car payment and buy his gas, all the times you cried when you got your paycheck because it was already gone from having to pay the rent and all the bills by yourself, all of the times you picked up the dinner check while he looked down and fiddled with a pointy charm from his many black leather cord necklaces, and you’ll smile a knowing smile and think, “I loved him when he was nobody, and look at what we built together with that love.  It was all worth it.”

Then you will wake up from this dream in the rags you now wear for clothes, shake off the street-scabies, and push your bag-lady shopping cart down the street to get a bowl of soup down at the mission.  You will pass a store window with a television showing the live red carpet arrivals at that year’s Grammy awards, and the unemployed musician boyfriend you loved and supported all those years will be on the screen in a Tom Ford tuxedo and ironic high-top sneakers from the 80s, with someone Hollywood refers to as “The Next Jennifer Lawrence” on his arm.  He’ll tell Ryan Seacrest that he couldn’t have made it this far without her, and that even though they’ve only been dating a month, she is his “soulmate”, and you will go to the library so you can use their computer and free internet to post a one-star rating for her latest movie and point out her cankles.

He used to make fun of people who used hokey terms like “soulmate”.

You will shuffle back from the library to your cardboard box only to be served with a subpoena from the credit department at Guitar Center for all of the shit you were manipulated into buying for Mr. Grammy Winner when he didn’t have a pot to piss in, and then you will proceed to lie down and die penniless in the gutter, still with your original boobs that he used to call “just okay”, and a credit score of 480.

The Band Thing

Does your new band have a new album out?  Yes, I would love to listen to it!  In the previous century.

So if you happen to have a time machine along with your demo MP3 or CD or whatever you’ve got there, I’d be glad to hop into it with you and take a listen, otherwise, I’m fine to just sit in my car and continue listening to this Van Halen song, thanks.

I don’t want to be that old person who thinks your new band sucks or is boring.  If we’re being perfectly honest here, and I would hope after all this time we’ve been together that we should feel comfortable being honest, I can’t even muster up enough interest in your new band to form an opinion on whether it’s boring or it sucks.  The distance between my finger and the play button might as well be a mile.  I cannot make myself care enough to even listen to ten seconds of it.  I just can’t.  I overdosed on new bands years ago and I had to quit cold turkey.  Even if nine out of ten dentists recommend brushing with your new band, I’ll be on the side of that one, lone-holdout dentist who refuses to even weigh in on the matter.

(Please note that I am only on the lone-holdout dentist’s side for this particular scenario only.  Otherwise those guys can all go straight to hell.  I have to assume the lone-holdout dentist in any of those dental studies is just one of those contrarian-types by nature, and will argue the other side of anything with anybody, just for the sake of being difficult.  If you put them in a room with a bunch of round-earthers, they’d say the world is flat, and if you put them in a room with a bunch of flat-earthers, they’d say Kanye totally has a chance of making a comeback after all this shit he’s pulled.)

The problem isn’t the new bands.  It really isn’t.  The problem is the years I personally spent in a band and The Wizard of Oz takeaway I got from it.  I made the long journey down the yellow brick road, pulled back the curtain, and was like fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.  Related – I have no idea why I’m so into the Wizard of Oz lately.

I wanted to be in a band from the time I was four years old when I saw Joan Jett on television for the first time.  I was standing in the living room on the shag carpeting, holding my favorite stuffed animal (Lammy Pie, who I still sleep with in the bed), and was truly thunderstruck.  Joan Jett.  I’d never seen a woman like her before.  I knew right then that I wanted to be whatever she was.  She was, and still totally is, the actual. fucking. coolest.

Fast forward many years and I was finally in a band – for ten years.  It wasn’t anything like I thought it would be.

That’s mainly because most musicians aren’t “cool” so much as they are goddamned insufferable.  They’re all the perfect 50/50 combination of massive ego and eggshell ego, which has long been the recipe if you want to make a big ol’ bucket of Grade A “Asshole”.  They require constant attention, constant reassurance and ego-stroking and expect everyone to hang on their every word because oh, they’re such brilliant and sensitive geniuses!  Nobody’s more clever or damaged than they are!

They also win the award for thinking they’re the only people in the world who ever shed a fucking tear.  Just wait until someone they were friends with for two days at summer camp, someone they haven’t seen in 20 years, falls down an elevator shaft or something and they’ll write a 12 minute magnum opus about how their “best friend” died and then they’ll walk around wearing all black for three months.  Oh god, the drama.  I assume November Rain was written about one time it got cloudy for like five minutes and Axl Rose stared out a window and thought, “NOTHING LASTS FOREVER”.

Being in a band is also a lot of standing around listening to all the other musicians talk about how great they were or how sad they were or how much they didn’t give a fuck – and how much everybody else falls short by comparison.  Lots of arguing over who got to be the loudest onstage, lots of secret volume knob-turning up after the argument had been settled, and non-stop jockeying for the most prime space on the bill and on the stage.

Or was that just the way I acted when I was in the band?  Wait, I think that was just me.

Wait, no.  It was all of us.  Most of us?  Be honest with yourselves, musicians.  If you’ve ever uttered the words, “Can I get more vocal in the monitor?”, you’re probably insufferable.  Don’t worry – it’s part of your charm.  Much in the way a skunk’s stink is also part of its charm.  It’s the thing that makes them remarkable.  Stinky, something you should avoid like the plague, and remarkable.

You have actually interrupted someone’s wedding vows to explain your bass rig to someone.  You know you have.

You have handed out your CD at a funeral.

You have non-ironically quoted your own lyrics in casual conversation.  Gross.

You have told people, with a straight face, that you really need to get your signature song, your “message” out to the masses.  Also, your signature song was written using a Webster’s Rhyming Dictionary, which I know for a fact you have, because you left it on the back of your toilet that time when you had that party.

If given the option to give up ten IQ points or finally achieve that perfect tone you’ve been seeking with your new guitar setup, you’d ditch the IQ points.

Also, I can think of approximately fifty trillion things that are more interesting to anyone in conversation than your guitar tone, so please, for the love of god, stop talking about it.  You are allowed to talk about your tone when you’re at the guitar store and the guitar store only.  That’s it.

And get this – nobody at the guitar store wants to hear about your tone, either.  They’re just waiting for their turn to talk about theirs.  Even if Eddie Van Halen did an in-store appearance and talked about his tone, you’d just be sitting there waiting for your turn to tell him about yours, like he gives a shit.

It’s like when you get a room full of new parents together, and each one is just waiting for their turn to talk about their baby and nodding politely until the other person stops talking.  They’re not listening to you and they don’t care about your baby.  They just want to talk about their own baby.  Then when they start talking about their baby, all you’re doing is waiting for your turn to talk about your baby again.

Bands ruined me for all subsequent bands.  I don’t want to hear about your new band, I don’t want to listen to your new band’s new song, I don’t want to know what the word “band” means anymore.

I thought people in bands were the coolest people in the world my whole life, until I made it into a band myself, pulled back the curtain, and instead of finding a wizard, I found a bunch of assholes preening and whining and pretending they didn’t go turn up their amp after everyone just agreed they needed to turn it down.

You’re allllllll stinky.  You’re stinky like a skunk.

Also, shut up.