Adoring fans, tour buses and booze.
They’re the reasons I’m becoming a
rock star.
Last week Art Brut lead singer Eddie Argos stomped around on stage at the WOW Hall in Eugene as he belted out the lyrics to “Formed A Band.”
“I want to be the boy/The man/Who writes the song/That makes Israel and Palestine/Get along,” he sang.
I had a tough day playing Mario Kart 64, but I knew Argos was speaking to me. It was time to live out my destiny and become a rock star. I wouldn’t practice the Rivers Cuomo (Weezer) act of going to school.
I needed a game plan. I took my University of Oregon School of Journalism and Communication skills and began my research with, of course, Google. I searched and found “The Secret Formula,” Babysue.com’s 26-step guide on how to become a rock star. Apparently, nobody else has found this “secret formula” on the Web – or else we’d all be stars. Trust me, the Internet is a credible source.
On the Web site’s guide, I looked ahead and went to the third step to determine a band name.
“You already have what people are looking for – real talent,” the guide told me. “When you have real talent, it doesn’t really matter what you call it.”
I discovered a couple band-name-generator Web sites and found a wide array of selections: Defending Terrorist (An oxymoron?), Balding Fate (I’m not looking forward to it.), Phony Benefit (I need to make money on the side.), Pudgy Inertia (That property of matter needs some exercise.), Over-sized Savage (5 feet, 8 inches is considered a savage these days.), Bean Crotch (I was experimenting?), Fleeting Licorice (RUN! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, DELICIOUS CANDY!), Disturbed Butt (Hmm . . . ), Friendly Lotion (I prefer Dove.), Universal Finger (Wow.). It was time to stop. As I was advised, it didn’t matter, anyway. No matter what, though, I planned to insert “The” in front of the band name to be cool.
The next step advised me to go to concerts and wear interesting clothes to stand out. It told me that I shouldn’t be put off when people make fun of me and throw things at me during a concert.
“Remember, they are only jealous because you are getting more attention than they are,” it read. I recalled that nobody threw anything at me during the We Are Scientists, Art Brut and The Spinto Band concert. I beg for somebody to please throw a shoe at me. Wearing a fanny pack to the next show I attend should do it. Five years from now, when you see hip University students walking around with fanny packs, remember me.
My to-do list included getting a name and requesting that a roommate throw something at me. Easy enough. Time for the eighth step (From four to eight? I dropped out of school, remember?), which advised me to take care of my skin. This could come in handy if I went with the lotion name.
“Rub it. Polish it. Baby it,” the Web site tells me to do to my skin. So I tend to my skin.
Yeah, skin, you like that? You like that, skin?
I hit a roadblock at Step 12: It tells me I need to learn to sing. Why is this way down here at No. 12? Doh! I breathe louder, spilling my Cheetos all over the keyboard. I calm myself down by remembering that I sing when I listen to music on my CD player and in the shower.
It’s OK, I tell myself. My lyrics will be based on past experiences, including doing homework, paying rent and utility bills, emptying the garbage, riding my bicycle, sitting on the bus, drooling on a pillow, waiting for the bus and Facebook-browsing. That’s eight songs. Good enough for a single and debut album.
The bottom line is that I will eventually achieve Step 26, which is accepting that I’m a star. It’ll be time to have illegitimate children.
I won’t appear in any cheesy commercials. I won’t pee on underage girls. I’ll play in every town in Oregon.
Don’t be surprised when you see The Fleeting Licorice on the cover of Rolling Stone next month. If you happen to see my byline next week in the Emerald, it’s only my “temporary” job.
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