I Should Have Been a Rockstar Book Tour & Giveaway 5/12 – 6/12

 

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John Kaniecki was born in Brooklyn, New York. Though having no memories of

life there, John is proud to be called a Native New Yorker. John was
raised in Pequanock Township, New Jersey. At age twenty John was
baptized and became a member of the Church of Christ. Presently John
resides in Montclair, NJ and lives with his wife of over twelve years
Sylvia. The happy couple attend the Church of Christ at Chancellor
Avenue in Newark, NJ. John is very active in outreach and teaching as
part of the leadership of the congregation.

 

Prologue
Meet Don Colandri
This is the story of Don Colandri: a fictional character in a fictional universe.
Everything else presented upon these sacred pages is potent gospel truth.
We now join our protagonist in the midst of one of his most distasteful
pastimes.
He is not studying. Oh no, studying is far from the excruciating, intense ordeal
happening. Rather, the young college student is cramming. Observe the
multiple
beads of sweat gathering on Don’s head, in particular on the glossy area of his
premature receding hairline, where the light shines and shimmers. It is a
physical
feature that makes Don Colandri look older than he actually is, not old in a
positive sense, like he could enter into a liquor store and not be asked to
present
an ID, but rather in a merciless pathetic way.
If Don Colandri could be mistaken for a tennis star, it would without a doubt
be John McEnroe. Of course, Don couldn’t play tennis like the aforementioned
world champion. But you wouldn’t know that if you sat and listened to Mr.
Colandri. In fact, with frantic persuasion Don would lay down pertinent
statements to make his case. As is his habit, his truths are laced with lies. “I
can
serve the ball over one hundred miles an hour,” he says. “My two-hand
backhand is better than most people’s forehand,” he claims. “I would have
played in the Olympics, but I pulled a hamstring,” he laments. In fact, such
falsifications are canted with “hyper” enthusiasm. This leads directly to Don
Colandri’s nickname. He is known by friend and foe alike as Hypo. By the way,
his two-hand backhand is better than most people’s forehands, as everybody
who
has never played tennis is part of that which constitutes “most people.”
Words fail me to describe Don Colandri with only one primary adjective.
Some men, for example, are known as handsome. They have perfectly straight
teeth, creating a glistening white smile, with luscious blue eyes that capture all
the wonders of creation and with hair in immaculate style as if painstakingly put
in order strand by strand, all summed up in one label as handsome.
Hypo, however, is not handsome. Rather, he is far from it. In perfect honesty,
and truthful I must be, the young man is quite repugnant. His mouth boasts
crooked teeth, stained yellow from smoking tobacco cigarettes. He has beady
eyes reminiscent of a rat, always shifting left and right as if navigating some
grand maze in an endless quest for a massive hunk of provolone cheese. The
character’s receding hair has been previously mentioned. In addition, these
disloyal tresses were curly and frequently greasy. Yet I am reluctant to simply
describe Don Colandri as repugnant. For it would miss inner values, some of
which contain virtue. It is not that Don Colandri is remotely righteous. Rather,
true to life, he is gray. Not ambiguous in that shade, for as the story proceeds,specific personality traits shall clearly come forth. Don Colandri, simply put, is
Don Colandri. So let’s just call him Hypo, shall we?
Now, Don Colandri is a sophomore attending Edward’s University. As attested
by his statics book, Don is an engineering student. At this exact instant, he is
trying to deduce the effect of moments on cantilever beams. One day, Hypo
dreams of being a successful engineer. He has no pretense that he is working
at
this for the betterment of mankind. Rather, his mind is focused on green. Not
the
green of nature either, but rather the green of money. But before he can count
his
riches, he must attain them. This means paying some dues and attaining his
college degree. So the pressing matter at hand is the complicated sketch of a
cantilever beam with an abundance of arrows and measurements. Why, if Don
didn’t know better, he might think the picture was some insidious drawing
designed just to cause havoc and confusion. Just for fun, Don turns his
textbook
all different angles. He looks at the drawing sideways. He looks at the drawing
upside down. It could be that some lost pirate hid a treasure map inside the
textbook in the open disguise of a force diagram. But after a noble effort, Don
decides that this isn’t the case. He lets out a sigh of desperation similar to a
tremor before an earthquake.
Now, Don is not alone in his obscenely messy apartment room. Clothes of
every variety are tossed all about. So badly sloppy is the abode that if a thief
broke in and ransacked the room, nobody would notice. Sadly, I do not
exaggerate. From these clothes emits an awful stench. The dreaded stale smell
of
sweat serves as the base odor. This is masked over by cigarette smoke and
marijuana smoke. Yes, Hypo and company do indulge from time to time in
smoking some weed. It is one of their favorite pastimes, in fact. But I want to
point out the most embarrassing aspect of the clothes strewn around the
apartment. This is, of course, the dirty underwear. Some of these white
garments
are soiled both brown and yellow. Ah yes, dear reader, it is a tragedy of
epidemic
proportions. But Don and his roommates don’t live like this perpetually. They
are only slobs by convenience. They are quick to tidy up if some festive event
is
to occur, especially if there is any possibility of them getting laid.
Who are Don’s roommates, you ask, the other individuals who share the
domain known as room eight? Well come on down, Peter Bellos. You’re the
first
contestant to be introduced to the fine reader. While not the hero of the story,
Peter Bellos does play a major part in this tale. In fact, whether Don Colandri is
a hero or not is up to conjecture. Truly he is a victim of circumstance. But not
Peter Bellos. No, he, along with Hypo’s two other friends, proves to beopportunistic. Take a good look at Petie. His darker-colored skin must be
noticed
first in light of this racist society in which we live. Observe his piercing brown
eyes, two wonders that Don Juan himself would envy accompanied by the
plump
belly hanging over his belt that he laughs away as “love handles.” Most
prominent of all is his long black hair, hair that is greased back with globs of
gel.
This style has earned Mister Peter Bellos his nickname: Slick. For you see, as
you may have noticed, every one of the occupants of room eight has a
nickname.
At this present moment, Peter Bellos is lying down on the couch amongst the
dirty laundry, his head buried in a textbook of some sorts. Slick, too, desires to
be rich. It is a common malady of people in this story, always wanting
something
that they don’t have. But that seems most logical, does it not, dear reader?
Why
would you want what you already have? That would be redundant.
Unfortunately, the whole of mankind is swept away with coveting this
illusionary thing called money. After all, it is either green pieces of paper or
digits upon a computer. But there shall be time enough for me, the author, to
subtly introduce my subversive feelings. So I will lay off and say that Slick, too,
was a greedy bastard and, like Don Colandri, an engineering student.
Now, Myron Thompson, the next roommate of room eight, is a man of
contradictions. He has a deep-seated hatred of his parents for naming him
Myron. Any time that Myron hears his name called out, he cringes in
humiliation. Of course, his peers don’t say “Myron” in some normal fashion.
Rather it is more like “Myyyyyyyyyyyyyyron,” kind of in a singing way to
express a notion of mockery. Myron is a bit of an athlete. As he found out early,
he has to be tough to live up to the name he wears. Now, Myron Thompson
really isn’t motivated to become an engineer to get rich. Rather, his existence is
void of life and purpose. This is evidenced by the black celebrations of room
eight. A black celebration is an event during which the attendees get
intoxicated
without any real reason to do so. It’s one thing to get plastered because it’s
New
Year’s Eve. There is some formal reason or a semblance of an excuse. It’s
another thing to do so simply because it’s Thursday. Myron Thompson is a bit
taller than his roommates and had curly, sandy blond hair. His nickname is
“M.T.” Those are, indeed, the initials of his first and last name. However, “M.T.”
sounds very much like “empty.” So whenever Myron’s nickname is spoken,
people point to his skull where his brain should be if it wasn’t “empty.”
Occupants of room eight laugh at things that really aren’t that funny. It is just
the
way that they are.
Now I must diverge and ask the philosophical question: Do we save the bestfor last? Well, at rock and roll shows, you have opening acts and then out
comes
the best act. They call these “headliners.” This brings me to the title of this
story:
“I Should Have Been a Rock Star!” In American culture, or even British culture,
it is probably something that every intelligent human being has said at one time
or another, when you wake up from the drudgery of the job staring into the
dismal black abyss that is your reality, gasping for air as if you were submerged
in the sea of life being pushed down by some invisible hand directing your
worth. But there is a very crucial thing we shouldn’t overlook, and that is to
never lip-sync. It is an unforgivable sin, the blasphemy of the Rock and Roll
Spirit. Transgress just once, and the ghost of Elvis Presley will haunt you
forever, singing “Love Me Tender” day and night without repose.
Lastly, I have the great pleasure to introduce Saul Griffin, and yes, like Jesus
Christ, Saul Griffin is a Jew. What exactly a Jew is these days, I really can’t
define, so I’ll digress. I’ll save my preaching for Sunday morning at Chancellor
Avenue. Right now, I’m trying to tell a story. You could call it an allegory if you
like. But I’d rather look at it as a bunch of stuff that just happened to happen.
Just a whole lot of whoopla that excites you, and then before you know it, the
book is over, with your tongue hanging out panting for more, more, more. That
is Saul Griffin’s personality to the hilt. He is always looking for that bigger
score, trying to outdo not only everyone else but himself as well, and yes, Saul
Griffin has a nickname. They call him Psycho. As far as a physical description,
Saul Griffin would call himself tall, dark, and handsome. Unfortunately, reality
begs to differ with those adjectives. Psycho is short, pale, and ugly. He has
reddish hair with freckles out of control.
Well we had to mention Woody Guthrie somewhere, so we’ll just throw his
name in here at the end of the chapter. He is perhaps the one man in the music
business who is mightier than a rock star. We could have thrown Lead Belly’s
name in there too, but America in 2016 is still a systematically racist society,
from the Sunday morning cartoons, up to the man who pulls the strings of the
chief of the Federal Reserve. But Don Colandri doesn’t care to contemplate any
of these matters. In fact, he has blotted out even his three chums from his
shortterm
memory. In turn, he can calculate the moment of a cantilever beam. The fly
on the wall observes Don Colandri’s forehead and sees one particular bead of
sweat. The light of the lamp has caught the drop of perspiration at just the right
angle, making it glisten as a diamond in the rough, and that is exactly what
Woody Guthrie is. How pretty, thinks the fly.

 

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