How to Kill a Rock Star

by Tiffanie DeBartolo

Has the industry done to music what McDonald’s has done to eating?

He made the decision to be oblivious rather than bitter, numb instead of heartbroken.

I have to shut this thing off for a second. I’m getting—what’s that Yiddish word for when you’re so overwhelmed you can barely speak? Verklempt.

Vera pointed to the envelope. “I think you missed something.” Eliza looked in and found a small scrap of paper that read: If you want me you’re going to have to come and get me. “Bastard.”

I put my hands on her face because I couldn’t believe she was really there. I told her she was brave and she said, “I’m not brave, I’m in love.” Ha. Same goddamn thing.

What I love, what it’s about for me, and what it’s always been about, is the music. Everything else I can use to wipe my ass. It’s pretty simple, really, when you think about it: We all start out as little fishes in our daddy’s pants, and we all end up a Thanksgiving feast for the worms, and in the meantime we have to find a couple good reasons to give a fuck. I’ve got my girl and my guitar, and for me that’s enough. The rest is yesterday’s news.