Magic Jewball

You know how you always say, “I wish Joe Rockstar & the Rockstars would put out a B-side collection?” Or, “Why did Joe Rockstar sue me for downloading Stoned (I Wish I Was) when it’s the awesomest song ever?” These decisions are not actually made by Joe and his junkie bandmates. They are made by label people. Joe probably doesn’t much care either way whether the B-sides are out. He may care deeply about the downloading but there’s as much chance that he’s against downloading as that he is for it. Most of all, he cares that people go to his shows where he actually makes money.

I was once guilty of these thoughts. I even called Rockline (remember Rockline?) in 1993 to speak to my own personal idol and ask him why his demo collection was available as a bootleg and not as a proper CD I could buy at Musicland. He hemmed and hawed and said he’d like to put out the CD but it was up to his record company. You see, saying “I signed away all control over my own work” is kind of like saying, “ask my wife to write you a check; she controls the account.” But in an ironic twist (well, not so ironic when you consider that he was my idol) I went to work for said artist’s label a year later and found out the ugly truth. Mr. Idol didn’t have enough fans to support the idea of putting out the bootleg demo CD. It just wouldn’t sell enough to justify the cost of making it. Years later, his fans still ask me why that CD was never released. They look hurt when I tell them. But hey, these days it’s available for $8 on eBay which is less than the label would have sold it to you for anyway. Everybody wins!

But that brings up another fun fact about meeting one’s idol. When I was a pre-teen and swooned over The Police, then U2, then Duran Duran, and so forth, my mother used to watch me with a bemused expression and say, “you know, they go to the bathroom too.” As if! Well, fast-forward to Young Becca at her first label gig when Mr. Idol pops by the label digs, stops into Young Becca’s teeny office and asks, “Excuse me, do you know where the bathroom is?” Oh, the humanity.

I’m sorry I haven’t read your blog. Let me explain. I care about you, you know that you’re happy and not feeling pain at this very moment, but not about the minutiae of your life, like your dates or your lack of dates or your politics or musical taste (unless it’s exactly the same as mine). It’s not that I don’t care about your politics, I just don’t really care about politics. Unless they affect me directly. That’s because I’m American!

There are exceptions to this. If you were linked to on Gawker, then I may have read your blog today. That’s because someone smarter and more interesting than I am tipped me off that you said something really funny. That was great, thanks.

If you’re my college ex, then I read your blog on Annual Stalking Day, which is sometimes Semi-Annual Stalking Day if I’m feeling really depressed. (It’s good to see you’ve kept your smarmy conservative politics; that’s your wife’s problem now, though, isn’t it?) If you’re the woman in the office next to mine, then I read your blog to impress you that I read your blog. That’s more a skim, though. I went to the Evelyn Woods School of power skimming.

But that’s really it. If you’re reading this then you probably do read blogs and that’s OK. I ain’t mad atcha, whatever that expression means. Or it’s a pity read, which is OK. I’m not one of those, “don’t pity me” people. What the hell is wrong with pity? Pity usually leads to the receipt of goods and/or services which I’m all for. Did I mention I only have one leg and I was born a poor black child? I should have. My bad.

Anyway, the point is, I won’t be boring you with the petty details of my own personal life or my politics, you know, if I had any, unless they’re to illustrate a good story. Or to rant about something that you yourself would rant about, had you experienced it. I can tell already you’re like me, and since you are, you won’t care in the least about my life. I’m sure you’d be fascinated to hear, for instance, that I had popcorn for dinner last night and that it was Dale & Thomas barbecue flavor.

I really need to share the following, though. I have no idea how they keep employees in that place. For one thing, it’s oppressively hot, Winter and Summer alike. One cheerful woman there once told me, it was OK, “the store is dehumidified!” Oh, now I see. The other thing is, it always has an intensely strong smell. I’m sure that’s delightful for the person who walks in and breathes in the caramel chocolate aura but to be there all day? I mean, I walk out of there after five minutes and my hair smells like popcorn. This particular time it actually smelled like there had been a recent fire in the store. There seemed to be a crowd of 10 people behind the counter, none of whom seemed concerned in the least. On the bus ride home, the woman next to me kept sneezing. She insisted she was allergic to the ink in her Wall Street Journal (seriously!) but I was sure it was my burnt popcorn scented hair.

By the way, I hate to be all Seinfeldian, but how many times do you have to say “bless you” if a person you don’t even know has a sneezefest right next to you? Is it less if you’re reading “Rip It Up and Start Again” and you waited four days for Amazon to deliver it? How about if you have an iPod on and you can maybe get away with acting like you didn’t hear? Yeah, I said it after every sneeze. People think I’m nice but it’s only because I really have no idea how to get away with not being nice.

Oh, and if no one ever does read this, it will still entertain the voices in my head and keep them from having me murder someone. It’s a public service, really.