collegiate diversion

College student. Never got up the courage to major in music, let alone audition, or push herself to do any sort of training as a youngster, back when the kids were mean and their parents drove them to gymnastics to be the next Nastia-superstar-superfreak-contorionist-Kid at the Olympics.

Go Nastia, go.

Yeah, but where are all you mean kids now? You’re at fucking college now. I mean, we were at best “impaired” but maybe she had a point when she said

“Sam, you’ve actually always been this hard on yourself.” That’s pretty true, but I can’t remember. Don’t really remember the mean kids.

So, rockstar-ship. Myspace? Self release? Personal record label? Find some chicks in Athens, make beautiful sand-love on a beach somewhere with sandpaper guitar, drink in the horizon, and play for the Greeks.

Yeah, big following in Greece. I see it all now. For me, I mean. Was that not clear? For ME.

I saw my personal rockstar, or maybe that’s what I call him in my head, on the street last night. Or at least, he would like to think of himself as a rockstar. Someone better get this abuser of the legal system some knee-pads for the BonJovi concert, or that’s something to the effect that he friend said.

He said, she said, curtain.

We were in the city, leaving a show at 1AM, and yeah, I saw the schedule, saw his band playing that night too. When we first walked past the bar to get to BeatCircus, I saw him on stage from the street, back to us and tuning his guitar, looking actually even more rugged than I can remember.

Like that goddamned magazine I read way back when. “Rugged, handsome Boston native.” Oh god, why did I agree to go out with him before reading the article?! Mistake Samantha, stupid.

Very un-rockstar like. Of me, I mean.

I think he and I had it sort of worked out. You be the rockstar Steely Dan, and I’ll be the amateur RollingStone journalist, covering the story and taking your wise advise on men and the bizzzzz.

Bzzzzzzxzzzzz, rockstars blow.

So we were all walking, great show, and I was fantasizing about switching it up and becoming a rockstar, doing the dream and becoming what I had just seen. We pass your bar, the one where you apparently control the gigs, where you still won’t book me.

And, yeah, fuck you Samuel, if that’s your real name. I’m so glad at how I so cleverly missed you. Until the puff of smoke and your stupid, very starving-artist poise against the building.

We locked eyes then, on the pavement where we originally met. Irony. Clever. Blame the fucking sidewalk. Yeah, think I will. The sidewalk leads right to where we parked, it’s cracking from the blistering cold, ad you just have to be smoking here.

Lock eyes, and for one split-second, you are so not the rockstar anymore. You’ve got the courage to play in front of a mostly-empty and hateful bar, but you can’t even acknowledge me. Like you ever had the courage.

I was your biggest fan man, just like Stan, and you totally let me go. And I’ve totally let you go. Who is the rockstar now?

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