This isn't what it sounds like.
This is less a personal ad and more an open letter to my wife. If she's busy and can't fulfill these obligations, then I'll settle for an ex-girlfriend or any reasonably famous young actress.
This really, really isn't what it sounds like.
After my last (and I swore final) band broke up a couple years ago, I've been on a meandering solo kick, only not the kind of meandering that involves expensively noodling around in the studio to the total satisfaction of my inner muse.
No, this is more meandering like "Hey, all the kids are asleep and the wife is watching something on Netflix. I bet she wouldn't even notice if I snuck out to the garage. I wonder if the garbage is full."
It's not even like that. I don't have to sneak out. That's just one more in a long list of awful, suburban excuses like mowing the lawn, earning a living, a kid is bleeding, that are just too easy to come by these days.
So I figure what I need to get me off the proverbial couch is some kind of musical partner - not a band, because that's just way too much work. Too many opinions and egos, too much expensive equipment, huge space and time requirements.
But I just can't jump on the quiet side of the rock fence. I never was into the hippie thing or the folkie thing or the singer/songwriter thing. My idea of unplugged is drums. So I can't see myself sitting across from some other dork and playing lovely melodies and singing perfect harmonies like those "More Than Words" douchebags.
What I need is someone who will allow me explore my emotional side without having to resort to playing Grunge Lite covers to aging hipsters in coffee shops.
And I believe, from everything I've read, that I could do this with the right girl.
Therefore, to let you know exactly what I'm looking for, let me just paint the picture. Or rather, let me just cut the picture out of any music magazine.
You: Slightly brainy. Skinny. Long, straight, brown hair. A collection of Heart records. Edgy fashion sense. White.
Me: Punchable. Emo. Bad haircut. Embarrassingly white. Besweatered.
Our relationship: We'll need to be husband and wife, or boyfriend and girlfriend, or brother and sister, but publicly, we'll maintain a coyly indeterminate relationship status. Whatever we are, we'll either deny it or lie about it until the second record tanks.
Your past: If you really aren't related to me or we don't have any sort of pre-existing relationship, you're going to have to be an actress, fashion model, or reality TV contestant with at least a modicum of notoriety. However, you shouldn't be so famous that people don't see the posters and say "Wait, wasn't she in Bones?"
Our vibe: We'll need to share a spiritual and musical bond that led us to find one another in this crazy sea of mean people. You can talk about all that garbage in the interviews, I'll just pretend I'm quietly the brains behind your beauty when I'm really screaming for attention on the inside.
Oh yeah. I should mention that if this doesn't work out there may be a murder/suicide in the cards. But no worries, it'll work out.
My responsibilities: I absolutely have to be the guitarist or whatever instrument provides the melody. I'll play the friggin' recorder if it gets us signed.
Your responsibilities: You obviously have to sing. The one exception is if you want to play drums.
Has anyone done drums and recorder yet? Oh wait. Yes. There's six of those. Never mind.
And I promise to never, ever, ever take the focus off of you by looking directly into the camera.
The White Stripes
She and Him
Matt and Kim
Jenny and Johnny
The Hundred in the Hands
Donny and Marie (we're going old school, no one is doing that right now, it'll be our thing).
Look, this will be loads of fun -- thrift store shopping, photo shoots in gritty urban or gritty rural environments, feigned weariness at the constant questions about our relationship -- it's guaranteed to be at least a six-to-eight week whirlwind.
If you're interested, just get in touch with the girl whose couch I'm sleeping on. And don't worry about her, our fake relationship is completely fake platonic.
Joe Procopio trades in pop culture and tech culture, allowing him to poke fun at so many things. He's written for a number of online and offline publications from the late, lamented Smug to the fancy-pants Chicago Tribune and also for television. He's a novelist, a shredder, a joker, and a family man. Scoff at joeprocopio.com or follow on Twitter @jproco.
ABOUT JOE PROCOPIO
more about joe procopio
IF YOU LIKED THIS COLUMN...
9.1.10 @ 8:48a
I JUST read an article about Jenny and Johnny in Vanity Fair yesterday.
When you lay out all the pics ("And I promise to never, ever, ever take the focus off of you by looking directly into the camera."- HA!) the duo new sensation is pretty obvious.
9.1.10 @ 9:38a
Spoiler alert - and there's the punchline. I was afraid it might not be obvious but I got email this morning calling me a "homogeneaphobe," proving again that Intrepid readers are the smartest (and best looking).
9.1.10 @ 9:40a
Bangs. She's gotta have bangs. More than a slight resemblance to a Deschanel girl adds photo appeal.
For your part, you need to work on that enigmatic "I think I need to poo, but I can't decide if that's a good or bad thing" face.
9.1.10 @ 9:43a
You mean I don't have that down?
9.1.10 @ 11:48p
you know, your writing would totally blend in this genre.
9.2.10 @ 4:35p
Never would have caught that thing in the pix on my own. BRILLIANT.
9.9.10 @ 11:49a
This article made me blow soy milk out of my nose! Fortunately I learned that liquid will in fact NOT leak from my nose piercing (whew). I totally get this article and am demanding all my angsty, sulking, halfway -talented hipster friends read it and share in the absolute truth of it.
9.9.10 @ 11:56a
Wow, that is high praise and one hell of a mental picture. Thanks!