Rock Stars Should be Vaccinated Too May 3, 2006

We, the prosaic members of the workaday masses, could not possibly comprehend the joys and sorrows, and the trials and tribulations of the almighty rock star, even after he has passed his prime. You see, no matter how old a rock legend gets, to his loyal fans of yore, he still represents the indomitable, hip-gyrating, heart throb of his boyhood days. We, mere mortals, can accept our own processes of aging–the grey hairs, the crow’s feet, the crotchety moods, the unrelenting dementia–but ask us to acknowledge that our teenage rock star crush now classifies as antediluvian, and we’d much rather crowd-surf the moshers at a Megadeath concert.

What we are not wont to understand is that, apparently, rock stars are prey to a whole different set of ailments. You see, I went to a Little Tony concert the other night. For those of you who are not familiar with the Italian Elvis, I don’t recommend looking him up unless you are looking for a good chuckle. He’s old. Way passed his prime for a showman. But his fans are loyal to the point of squelching at his sight. Imagine, I was among crowds of senior citizens who, as they spotted Little Tony moving around backstage, may as well have been a bunch of 14 year-old girls shrieking in the presence of Justin Timberlake.

Tensions were thick and excitement was high as we awaited the music mogul’s appearance. When he finally walked down the stairs (slowly and with calculation), his apparent lethargy was veiled by the busy lights and frantic beat of the music he sang 40 years ago. The elderly woman standing beside me, as she moved her hips to the music in unfortunate syncopation with her husband’s, nudged me and yelled into my ear in her strong Italian accent, “Iya havea to watcha my husband. He hassa badda heart. Butta he loves a Little Tony!”

LT rocked out for about 4 songs and then passed the mike to his band-mate. Three men grabbed hold of the “living” legend and supported him up the stairs toward his dressing room.

“Oh shit,” I think to myself. “This guy’s gonna croak in front of his adoring crowd of superannuated fans. God only knows what kind of a chain reaction this is gonna have!”

We wait. The band plays on, trying desperately to come up with one song after another to appease the growing concern among the masses. They play YMCA, singing the chorus over and over again, since their Italian brains don’t know the rest of the song. The old folks aren’t dancing anymore. It’s one thing to aggravate your arrhythmia by dancing for LT, but it’s just not worth it for poorly translated cover songs sung by his backup singers.

Finally, the self-important, self-proclaimed media mogul of Ottawa’s Italian community, comes out to give us the update. “Little Tony caught a chill on his way here and his intestines are blocked up. He will not be resuming the show. He’s been rushed to the ER.”

WTF?! You’ve got to be kidding me! THIS is the explanation you give us? Since when does a burst of cold air cause constipation, and since when does constipation constitute a medical emergency. I admit I’m no doctor, but I have bowels, and very temperamental ones at that. And never in all my years of battling intolerances and tropical parasites and IBS, have my bowels ever become blocked due to frigid weather conditions.

And so, dear friends, it is my humble conclusion that the rock star has a genetic make-up that renders him susceptible to illnesses that we humans may not even venture to imagine because they are simply too stupid for our evolved minds to conjure.

But, since we derive such pleasure from the entertainment the rock star provides, may I invite our humanoid doctors to invent a vaccine for CRIB (Cold-related intestinal blockage) so as to protect our beloved musicians from these embarrassing incidents?