by Purple Cow
A silly little character sketch of a podiatrist turned rock star.
If I had to guess where my life was going ten years ago I don’t think I would have ever guessed I would be here. I went to college for four whole years with the goal of becoming a podiatrist. I know that going through twelve years of medical schooling to stare at feet all day seemed insane but at the time I thought it was a great career choice. I mean who else would be edging me off trying to get the best job openings? No one. I rest my case. Plus there's no pressure in podiatry. No one was going to walk into my office, plunk their feet on the table and suddenly fall into cardiac arrest. At least I'd hope not. I would have no deaths on my hands! How lucky could I be?
Besides it’s not as if having a childhood dream of becoming a podiatrist was all that strange. I mean how can you ignore your feet? They carry you everywhere! Surely someone must be dedicated to them, and I was certain that person would be me. As I studied aside young hot shots trying to learn the wonders of micro surgery I was contented just whiling away the hours wondering when I could get back to studying the actual part of the body I’d be treating someday. It wasn’t the most whimsical of daydreams but hey, I’m not exactly an artist, or at least I wasn’t going to be.
Life is funny in a lot of ways. Who could have guessed four years of tuition would have become null after one drunken night of karaoke. So I went out with some of the girls after bombing an exam and we went to the tackiest joint in town since we were already a little past tipsy. From all reports I got up on that stage and belted out the blues, or some other type of tune, and all of a sudden people were looking at me like I knew who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp. Of course I didn’t and I had even less of a clue as to who put the ram in the rama lama ding dong. Apparently I hogged the stage for an hour or two and had the crowd yelling in an intoxicated ruckus. The next day the whole campus, which had apparently all been there, were in a tizzy talking about me. I was so embarrassed. I had no idea what I had sung. To this day I’m still not sure what exactly went down. I just hope it wasn’t anything too horrifying. I’d hate to think of myself stumbling around stage trying not to giggle as I sung Take a Walk on the Wild Side. The horror! I could have even sung comedy or something so profoundly old the lyrics don’t make much sense anymore. Black Slacks comes to mind. Yo Daddio!
All that anyone told me was that I decided to sing Sloop John B at one point with my own interesting twist. I just about died when my hysterically giggling roomies had told me that at one point I was at the verge of tears yelling, “He ate all my damn corn!” I really hadn’t had any idea how that morning and the previous night could have been any worse.
To tell you the truth I didn’t remember a thing from the night before. All I knew was the feeling of the room spinning the next morning and the absolute dread that I had done something terribly off. Had I ended my show with an encore of tap dancing? I sure hoped not. I always did regret those tap dancing lessons way back in grade school. How was I to know they’d haunt me even now?
What happened after that was a blur. Somehow I ended up being hired for several college related events and eventually formed a band called Technical Difficulties. The band broke up after I hit it big somehow and moved on to be surrounded by other “professional musicians.” The new band was called Electric Noise Pollution and we toured all across the country.
I still can’t believe my satirical lyrics and terrible voice have carried me this far. My fans adore me. In fact they adore me a little too much. Someone leaked to the press my former career goal and ever since my fans have been throwing kitschy little feet shaped knickknacks up to stage, not to mention all the feet I get in the mail. Never have I been so abashed at aspiring to be so mediocre. Now I must live with this as I sing on a stage decorated with giant psychedelic footprints.
It’s not as if I totally loathe the life, really I don’t. I find it hideously amusing. I can wear things on stage that people would think was road kill in any other setting and then be praised for it! The press always thinks I’m making a statement when I do weird things when really I’m just flying my freak flag high. Just last night I wore flowing knee length afghan made entirely of unnaturally colored feathers. The animal rights people thought I was making a statement on birds, and maybe I was, but it’s far more likely I found the outfit in a trash pile and said to myself, “OOO! That one’s insane! I must add glitter to it!” And believe me it went very well with the stage which for that night’s concert was decked out very classy like an orchestra should have been playing. Of course I can’t totally sell out so in the background of this sane and serene setting I put an alter with a giant scary Kewpie doll standing on it, glaring over the masses like some sort of plastic God, lit up from all angles with neon lights. I bring at least one Kewpie doll wherever I go. I even have one dressed as Jesus on my dashboard. They’re kitschy little critters and I’ll be damned if I can’t say no to them.
My real life isn’t so – how shall we put it? Eccentric. No, I live in a little apartment in the middle of the boonies so my fans can’t find me. They’re an unruly bunch. I wear normal clothing and nothing makes me randomly burst into song anymore, or at least not since I stopped drinking last week.
My love life isn’t all that exciting either. In fact the less you know about it the better off you’ll be. In truth I’ll admit stardom has jaded me and I keep falling for other musicians and I know every time it’s a bad idea. I mean sure it’s always fun at first until you’re taking their drunk asses home and shoving them in the shower to try to rinse off the smell of patchouli. How was I supposed to know you have to occasionally check in to make sure they haven’t drowned? It’s not like I am their baby sitter.
I’m not a criminal. It’s not like I bury them in the back yard like expired pocket pets or feed them to alligators or something. No, the last three boyfriends of mine all ended up where most rock stars belong, in front of the Betty Ford drop off slot. I hear the number of bodies piling up out there is becoming exorbitant though so I guess I’m going to have to find another center to drop off any future beaus. I expect to be questioned any day now and I know exactly what to say.
“He ran off with one of his floozy groupie fans! I haven’t seen him in weeks!”
Someday I think I’ll have a boyfriend that lasts longer then a Wal-Mart goldfish. I mean probability is on my side, right?