Last month, The Queen and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. Holy cow! If you’d been with us the night we met, you probably would not have expected us to make it this far.
Want to hear a funny story? Grab a beverage and pull up a chair…
This is simple. The hierarchy for ass in a band is as follows, as I have observed as a musician and roadie:
- Lead singer (Don’t even THINK about competing. They are basically humping the entire audience during the set.)
- Saxophonist (Most bands do not have one. But if they do, this man takes a backseat only to the front man.)
- Lead guitarist (Assuming no sax player, this guy has — almost — his pick of female fans.)
- Drummer (Old joke — what do you call a guy that hangs out with musicians? A drummer. But damned if they don’t look good back there beating their skins with their long, rigid shafts.)
- Rhythm guitarist (Doesn’t take the leads but still gets credit for strapping on the Strat.)
- Bass player (Hey, we know how to hit the groove!)
- Keyboard player (Barely a step above the road crew. Not that there is anything wrong with the road crew!)
“Table for one… table for one…”
The cold plastic illusion of companionship.
Friend-o, we got us a dilemma here. What if my Expression is standing on the outside taking pictures of inane bureaucracy?
That’s okay. I prefer my Expression free-range as opposed to cage-raised.
I have some quirks. (News to you? Really? Check out just about anything I’ve ever written here…)
One of them is based on my time living in New York City. For a couple of years, I lived in Queens. I would venture into Manhattan periodically. But without fail, every time I ventured into Manhattan, I expected to see a celebrity. Because Manhattan is where the celebrities are…