Child Entertainer/Gigolo

I’ve discovered that there are few things in life more depressing than fulfilling 90% of your dream. It’s like banging a playmate’s grandmother. Or being in a band with Sean Lennon. Actually…I guess it’s like doing ANYTHING with Sean Lennon. Seriously, how has that guy not killed himself in a motel bathroom yet?

One of the many jobs I’ve had is teaching music at a camp. With all due modesty, I’ve been an overwhelming success. Kids SCREAM my name and rush me when I walk around. Parents ask me for autographs. It’s crazy.

At any rate, I agreed to do a concert for this camp last night. There were about 100 people packed outside to see ME. They screamed my name. They did the wave. They hung on every song, every word and applauded like mad. And it was all supremely depressing.

Don’t get me wrong, I love them and I’m very happy for the support. But what the fuck does it say about my life? Yeah, I’ve managed to get people to drive out to see me. Yeah, they love me. But somehow, the only way I’ve managed to be a musical success is by singing other people’s songs. For kids. It’s like winning the gold medal for curling.

Speaking from personal experience, there is no profession in the entertainment industry that comands less respect than Children’s Musician. The hierarchy is clearly set. Starting near the bottom and working down it goes:

1. Fluffer
2. Mime
3. Medical Curiosity
4. Jizz Mopper at a nudie-booth
5. Children’s Musician

It’s not that there isn’t good money to be made there. In fact, I made an obscene amount for money for 45 minutes work last night. But the amount of humiliation you’re subjected to is beyond belief. I know one of the biggest acts in Children’s music. He lives in a very nice house and tours whenever he likes. But I have no idea how he sleeps at night. I don’t mind doing the occasional show…especially when I’ve just had to replace the transmission on my car, but if that’s all I’d accomplished in my life, I’d have long ago hung myself with the ribbon from a party balloon.

I had some supremely weird experience in my time as a children’s entertainer. Example: I once got a call from the mother of one of the children. She chatted with me for a while and finally asked if I would play at their house that Friday.

“What’s the event?” I asked. “Is your son having a birthday party or something?”
“Not exactly,” she answered. “It’s my anniversary, so I thought you could just play while we ate dinner.”
“So it’s a dinner party?”
“No. No other guests.”
“You want me to play for just you, your husband and son?”
“Actually, my son’s sleeping over someone else’s house that night.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on, it’ll be fun. In fact, you don’t even have to bring your guitar. We have a pool. Just bring your swimming trunks.”
“Um…"
“We’ll pay you $300 bucks just to keep us company.”

By this time I was thoroughly skeeved out. I mean, as close as I could tell, I was being asked to be a male prostitute. This does not necessarily go against my morals…provided the clientele is easy on the eyes…and all female. Frankly, the creepiest part of the whole experience was how comfortable she was asking me. It definitely gave me the impression I wasn’t the first person she’d propositioned to suck her husband's cock.

But it also underlines my point about how low down on the totem pole Children’s Entertainers are. As this woman clearly shows, there’s little or no line between performing for kids, and “performing” on her and her husband.

So tonight I go off to band rehearsal with a new sense of determination. I’m sick of fucking Ms. October 1956. From now on, it’s Playmate of the Year or bust. And by “bust,” I mean boobs.