You take it for granted, as you would after getting so many, but me and my ilk, the non-performers – we yearn to make our own guest list and see it come to fruition.

I want people I know to attend a paid event, in which I’m the featured act, at no cost. This isn’t only because of my staggering number of guest list appearances and my compulsion to pay it forward. As a regular friend of the band, I’m aware that you feel slightly cooler when you get to walk up to the counter and the person asks for your ticket. “I’m on the list.” She now wonders how you know the performer, because while you certainly look put together and stylish, you’re not giving off an arrogant vibe of a proximal celebrity.

While I’m performing, the guests from my list will understandably be the least excited to watch me perform. They already get to see me all the time, and so they will find their way into my green room, where they will take advantage of my rider.

I’ve always wanted a rider. The ones I hook my wagon to always lack the luster they should, given the options. Mine would start with some corn chips and salsa. Then peanut M&Ms, all the colours of the rainbows. A fruit basket, arranged by a total pro. An acrylic painting of the town I’m in. Dimethyl-pumpkins & Ativanic cherry blossoms. Fill me up. The Japanese tuna that Britney eats. Chicken nougat and lies. And Sisyphus’ fingerprints.

My demands met, my room ridden successfully, still I am not happy. Something is missing.

Next time, I will ask for a kangaroo.

April 24 – Barbra Streisand gets a rider’s guest list
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