As most of you are probably aware by now, my new record, "Nuke the Nukes" has tanked.
There are myriad reasons for this. First off, the record company didn't understand my vision. I was looking for a John Mayer-ish warmth mixed with a Sepultura urgency, something they clearly didn't get. This has to be the reason they took the project out of my hands, only to bring in Phil Spector to produce an alternate version of my work.
Perhaps the worst sin of all was that they didn't put enough marketing muscle behind it. Excuuuuuuuse me, but one bum with a sandwich board does not a marketing campaign make. And they didn't even put him on a visible corner. I kept telling them there was not enough traffic in northwestern Nebraska to justify putting all our chips into that basket. But they assured me that "the Brask" was where the tweens were hanging out these days.
Regardless, we all know that the tweens are the wrong demo for my passionate take on using half the world's nuclear weapons to blow up the other half of the world's nuclear weapons. This message clearly sailed over their heads.
And having me guest star on the long-running Cinemax softcore porn series, "Lipstick Traces," was clearly not the best way to expose the record-buying public to my impassioned plea for stopping nuclear explosions with other nuclear explosions. As much as I respect the actress I had near-sex with, her eyes rolled back into her head every time I mentioned that Pakistan's nukes could only be stopped with India's nukes.
Doesn't anyone get me?
Now, my art won't even rust in peace in the "Used" bins because it hasn't been used at all in the first place.
What does this do for my career? I must say it's at the very least making me consider career suicide. I'm thisclose to telling my career as a musical genius to begin cutting itself as a cry for help.
If that doesn't work, I will counsel my career to begin looking for a) a running car and b) a closed garage.
Then at least my career can r.i.p. with an extended group of like-minded friends up to and including Garth Brooks as Chris Gaines, the Mondale/Ferraro ticket, Tommy Morrison the actor, Magic Johnson the talk show host, Christie Brinkley the artist, Michael Richards the bigot, Crystal Pepsi, the burger that stumbled upon a starving Orson Welles and the whiskey that thought it could sneak out while Pat Morita was vomiting.
But there's a lesson to be learned from these career deaths. And that is this: Never let your ambition exceed your grasp.
This is why I've decided to go back to comedy. My roots. My specialty. My "back to Africa."
In short, world, you're welcome in advance. You won't have me and my Mushroom Cloud Destroying Mushroom Cloud to kick around anymore.