Member-only story
When I Was A Teenager, I Used To Fantasize About Being A Rock Star.
I wanted to be on stage performing
Midnight Oil.
Duran Duran.
Bon Jovi.
Aerosmith.
I wanted to be them and I spent countless hours in my bedroom in this pursuit, but for me, I wasn’t in my bedroom. I was on stage. I was performing. I was in the band.
My fantasy usually placed me in the lead singer role and I had Steven Tyler down. He would make love to his microphone stand and I pretended to do the same with the old canoe paddle I used in its place.
Sometimes I would be the lead guitar. Using the same paddle, now lovingly in my arms. The fingers of my left-hand zigzagging all over the shaft of that thing. And me, standing on my bed like it was a stage until the final, violent chord rang out and I leapt off to the floor. My arm spinning like a cartwheel.
I’d be exhausted.
How did the real performers do this for hours at a time? I guess that’s why they’re the stars and I’m in the air-band.
