Today, my kid told me I was an old man and couldn't be a rock star. I suppose she's right, but man that one cut to the bone. Worse, when I asked which was better, being a rock star or being a dad, she said, "Definitely a rock star, and it's not even close." I guess at four, the world had gotten to her already. She wouldn't get an argument from too may people, either. What stings more is that there's a part of me that agrees with the little urchin. I'd love to be a rock star, even an old one. I'd love to travel the world with my six string on my back. I'd love to have a groupie or two to do my laundrey at beck and call. I'd love to have Lemmy's cell # in my contacts or know that my summer European tour was sold out. I'd love to rock Cleveland. But it ain't happening.
Someday, my kid will know what's really important, but who am I to shatter the illusion now? Let her view the world big for now. Let her believe there's glit and glammer waiting out there. Maybe she'll believe so much she'll want to be a rock star herself, and god knows if she really wants to she can. Then I can live through her.
Someday, my kid will know what's really important, but who am I to shatter the illusion now? Let her view the world big for now. Let her believe there's glit and glammer waiting out there. Maybe she'll believe so much she'll want to be a rock star herself, and god knows if she really wants to she can. Then I can live through her.
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