If he just gets one more tom tom he could totally do YYZ — not that anyone would want him to. Besides, he would most likely spontaneously combust from the sheer awesomeness of it, or perish in a bizarre gardening accident.
I can’t feel sorry for him though. He knew the risks going in. Rock and roll is a mercurial multi-headed fire-breathing mistress in a tube top. He should play it smart. He needs to ditch the drums in favor of a nice bassoon. You never hear about bassoon players getting into any trouble or bursting into flames onstage. They never get untoward publicity from trashing a hotel room, because hotel rooms are expensive. Bassoon players stay at the Motel 6, and everything is bolted to the floor, and the walls are made from concrete blocks.
If he was any more underground he’d come out in China. I don’t think they’re hiring any philosophy majors just now, what with all the tariffs and all, so he’d be out of luck there too. Still, he has the mad skills that qualify you to be a barista. But making 15 yuan an hour isn’t as great as it sounds. He’d be better off turning his coolness meter down and switching to a more mainstream instrument, like the viola, or a glockenspiel. His life would get better, but of course our lives would be diminished. Perfection shouldn’t be tinkered with.
I’m not knocking his style though, it takes a real man to appear in public looking and acting like that. Do you suppose that someday, in the unlikely event that he procreates, someone will kidnap his daughter, and he’ll pick up the phone and say, “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. If you’re looking for ransom, I can tell you I don’t have money but what I do have are a very particular set of skills. Skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter go now, that will be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you on a unicycle. But if you don’t, I will look for you, I will find you and I will play the accordion.”
Flight delays are dreary. That’s because airports are dreary places. Long before they started hiring proctologists to greet you at the gate, all the humanity had been chased out of the whole process of going from here to there. Things could only go from bad to worse, and boy howdy, haven’t they?
Don’t get me wrong. Any man might sing, but it’s what they sing that matters. It’s how you separate the wheat from the chaff that determines if you’re qualified to stand with a pint and your hand and roar along with the rest of them, the best of them.
For instance, real men don’t sing Helen Reddy songs. They’re not interested in karaoke versions of selections from the Flower Drum Song. Real men go missing when Barry Manilow comes on the jukebox. Demi Lovato songs don’t enter into it.