You're in your 30s. Late 30s. If you haven't made it as a rock star by now, chances are slim that it will ever happen for you. In fact: It's not going to happen for you. And if you're truly being honest when you say that you make music for the sheer enjoyment of it, then quit throwing temper tantrums when a local music rag doesn't review your seventh album. Which, by the way, sounds exactly like your sixth album. And your fifth. And your fourth. You get the point. You are a local celebrity. In a town with a population less than 550,000, that puts you in a rank that includes a dude who plays guitar in an Elvis costume and the Channel 12 news team—who, I assume, all sing better than you anyway. And you should be kissing Tom's ass on MySpace, the means by which you avoid costly therapy visits to increase your self-esteem, AKA your source for getting laid. "Look at me! I'm in a band! I'm in two bands! That makes my face cuter and my balls not so old, right?" It's like your personal meat market. Well, guess what? Your hamburger has the clap.—Anonymous
Old Balls of Fire
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