I strum my guitar, trying to pinpoint the one out of tune string so I can wind it back into place. I look out at my uncaring, suburban audience. I'm half blinded by the stage lights, but I can tell they hate me. I've only been up here for 37 minutes and I'm already losing steam, filled with an awkward combination of self-doubt and disgust in my crowd's lack of taste. These people are like mannequins, I tell myself, they don't live real lives. They go to work, go to lunch, go back to work, go out for happy hour, go home and nestle into their television-lit cocoon. Sitting in this fake Irish bar, throwing back drinks to get rid of the constant thrumming behind their eyes, entertaining delusions that the freckly waitress would go to bed with them, before driving back to Livonia and slumping on the couch next to their equally bored wife, is the highlight of their entire existence.
I finally locate the wrong string, ease it back into place. Maybe "Margaritaville" will catch their attention. If not, I'll take my break and go flirt with that freckle covered waitress. I'm pretty sure she wants me.
25 June 2014